"He—he's good," said Ruth, tearfully. "He was trying to be good to me…. I'm just upset—that's all. I'll be—all right in a moment." But she was not all right in a moment. Her sobs increased. The strain, the anxiety, a sleepless night of suffering—and the struggle she had undergone to find the answer to Bonbright's question—had tried her to the depths of her soul. Now she gave quite away and, unwillingly enough, sobbed and mumbled on Hilda Lightener's shoulder, and clung to the larger girl pitifully, as a frightened baby clings to its mother.
Hilda's face grew sober, her eyes darkened, as, among Ruth's broken, fragmentary, choking words, she heard the name of Bonbright Foote. But her arm did not withdraw from about Ruth's shoulders, nor did the sympathy in her kind voice lessen…. Most remarkable of all, she did not give way to a very natural curiosity. She asked no question.
After a time Ruth grew quieter, calmer.
"I'll tell you what you need," said Hilda. "It's to get away from here. My electric's downstairs. I'm going to take you away from father. We'll drive around a bit, and then I'll run you home…. You're all aquiver."
She went out, closing the door after her. Her father was pacing uneasily up and down the alley between the desks, and she motioned to him.
"She's better now. I'm going to take her home…. Dad, she was muttering about Bonbright. What's he got to do with this?"
"I don't know, honey. Nothing—nothing ROTTEN…. It isn't in him—nor
HER."
Hilda nodded.
"Bonbright seems to have disappeared," her father said.