“Hurt?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “of course not.”
He picked up her bag. “My car’s just across the street,” he said, and they walked hurriedly toward it.
As they approached a black blot made by the shadow of a clump or ornamental shrubbery, the dark figure of a man arose, almost from under their feet, and scurried away. Potter’s impulse was to give chase, but Hildegarde clutched his arm.
“What in thunder?” Potter burst out, angrily. “Somebody spying on us.”
“Not on us,” said Hildegarde, bitterly.
“Of course it was on us. He probably saw me sneak into the grounds, and sneaked after to see what I was up to.... I wonder why.”
Hildegarde knew it was not a man who had followed Potter, but was undoubtedly an individual set by sinister interests to keep watch on her father and her father’s house, but she held her peace. It was a thing shameful to her and one she would keep locked in the secret places of her heart. It strengthened her courage and her resolution. She was running away from her father because his proximity was contaminating. “My father,” she was thinking. “He’s a traitor, a plotter.”
They hastened on, and both breathed in relief as Potter assisted Hildegarde into his car. He pressed the starter button and the cold engine started with a staccato, uneven, protesting roar.
“Where are we going?” Hildegarde asked.