“If you don’t stop bothering me this instant—” she began hotly, but he paid no heed.
“Where’s Miss Enderby?” he cried.
Lexy grew very pale. Those were the words she had heard over the telephone last night, and this was the same voice.
For a moment she was silent, staring at him, while he looked back at her, his blue eyes searching her face with a look of desperate entreaty. All her doubts vanished. She had not been wrong. She had been right—she was sure of it. She knew that something had happened—something inexplicable and dreadful.
“Please tell me!” he said. “You don’t know—you can’t know—she told me you were her friend.”
“But who are you?” cried Lexy.
His face flushed under the sunburn.
“I—” he began, and stopped. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he went on. “I’d like to, but, you see, I can’t. If you’ll just tell me where Car—Miss Enderby is! She’s safe at home, isn’t she? She—of course she is! She must be! She—she is, isn’t she?”
“Well,” said Lexy slowly, “I don’t see how I can tell you anything at all. I don’t know what right you have to ask any questions. I don’t know who you are, or anything about you.”
“No,” he replied, “I know that; but, after all, it’s not much of a question, is it—just if Miss Enderby’s all right?”