“That was nothing to where you’ve been, I reckon.”
“I’ve never thanked you,” Ruth replied, remembering, “for not telling on me that time you caught me on the train from Bordeaux.”
“How’d you know I caught you then?”
Ruth told him. He looked down. “I was pretty sure on the Ribot that you weren’t Cynthia, Miss Alden,” he said, “but I was absolutely sure I wasn’t doing anything risky—to the country—in keeping still. By the way, I’ve a letter from Cynthia’s people for you.”
He reached into a pocket and Ruth studied him, wonderingly. “How long have you been here, Hubert?”
“Oh, three or four days.”
“How long have you known where I was?”
He hesitated. “Why, almost all the time—except during the retreat in March, and then when you were in Switzerland and in Germany—I’ve known fairly well where you were.”
“Why didn’t you come to me four days ago?”
“Didn’t have this till today.” He produced a letter postmarked Decatur, Illinois, and in the familiar handwriting of Cynthia Gail’s father. “You see, after Gerry brought you back and everything was out, I thought the only right thing—to you, Miss Alden, as well as to them—was to write Cynthia’s people. I knew you would, of course, but I thought you wouldn’t say, about yourself, what you should. So I did it. Here’s what they say.”