“How do you know about this offer—so much about it?”
“I got it for you when—when I found that you must go.”
She looked defiance. She saw an answering look of suffering and appeal.
“Why?” she said, in a low voice. “Why?”
“For two reasons,” he replied. “I may tell you only one—Gammell. He will find a way to injure you. I know it. It would be folly for you to stay.”
“And the other reason?”
He did not answer, but continued to look steadily at her.
“I—I—understand,” she murmured at last, her look falling before his, and the colour coming into her face, “I will go.”
“Thank you.” He bowed with a courtesy that suggested the South in the days before the war. He walked beside her to the elevator. His shoulders were drooped as if under a heavy burden. His face was white and old, and its deep lines were like scars.
“Down, ten!” he called into the elevator-shaft as the car shot past on the up-trip. Soon the descending car stopped and the iron door swung back with a bang.