Sudden illumination came to Eveley. “Then that is why she left me. When she learned to love me, she would not profane our friendship. That is why she left.”
“She left because the cops were getting wise, and she had to get out in a hurry or get pinched.”
“And she is going with you—”
“Sure. She will be the idol of the revolutionists for what she has done—they will carry her about on a tin platter.”
“You will let me go now, Mr. Hiltze, please. But tell Marie that I understand everything, and when she wishes to come back to me, the Cote is open. It was only a mistaken loyalty to a wrong principle. Please go, I want to hurry home.”
He laughed a little. “Eveley, you are going to South America with me.”
In a sudden panic she turned, flinging open the door of the car, hoping to rush away into the darkness, but his arm held her.
“You will love me. I may not care for your Americanization, but I love you. I am going to be good to you. Don’t be a fool, Eveley, it will do you no good. You’ve got to go.”
Struggling was in vain, as Eveley realized at once, and she subsided quickly, trying to think. The thing was impossible. It could not be. Such things did not happen any more—not in real life in the United States. It was cruel, preposterous, unbelievable.
“Please let me go,” she pleaded. “I shall not try to report you, you can get away without trouble. But let me go home, please. I could never change toward you—I am not the kind that changes.”