The act was an act of partnership merely, but Orme let himself imagine an evidence of solicitude in her thoughtfulness. And then he demanded of himself almost angrily: “What right have I to think such thoughts? She has known me only an hour.”
But to him that hour was as a year, so rich was its experience. He found himself recalling her every change of expression, her every characteristic gesture. “She has accepted me as a friend,” he thought, warmly. But the joy of the thought was modified by the unwelcome reflection that the girl had had no choice. Still, he knew that, at least, she trusted him, or she would never have let him accompany her, even though she seriously needed protection.
They were passing a great cemetery. The shower had quickly ended. The white stones and monuments fled by the car like dim and frightened ghosts. And now the car swung along with fine houses, set back in roomy grounds, at the left, the lake at the right.
“Do you know this city?” the girl asked.
“I think not. Have we passed the Chicago limits?”
“Yes. We are in Evanston.”
“Evanston!” Orme had a glimmer.
The girl turned and smiled at him. “Evanston—Sheridan Road.”
“Evans,—S. R.!” exclaimed Orme.
She laughed a low laugh. “Ah, Monsieur Dupin!” she said.