By this time they had come to the northern limits of the grounds, but he had seen no one.
Suddenly the girl exclaimed “Listen!”
Orme stopped the car. Somewhere from the distance came a faint hum. “Another car!” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, but I can do no more. I am tired, Mr. Orme. We cannot catch that car, even if it does hold the man we want—and there is no way of being sure that it does.”
“If there is any place to leave you, I will go after him alone.” He had turned the car as he spoke and was sending it slowly southward.
“No,” she said wearily. “We—you must do no more to-night. You have been so good, Mr. Orme—to help me in a matter of which I could tell you almost nothing. I won’t even try to thank you—except by saying that you have understood.”
He knew what she meant. He had met her need, because he had known its greatness without her telling him. His recognition of her plight had been unaccompanied by any suggestion of ignored conventions. No gushing thanks would have pleased him half so much.
He smiled at her wistfully. “Does it all end here?”
“No,” she said, “I will not let it end here. We are friends already; in fact, Mr. Orme, as soon as I can do so, I will see that we are friends in name. Can you accept as little a promise as that?”
“I can accept any promise from you,” he said gravely. “And now shall I take you home?”