"Going! Where?" I asked.
"I don't know just yet. Away from here, from New York—at once."
"But I can't let you go without—"
He held up his hand and I paused.
"Don't talk, Roger," he said quickly. "Don't question and don't talk. It won't do any good. I had hoped I shouldn't see you. I was waiting—waiting until the lights went out."
"But I couldn't."
"Please!" he said quietly, and then went on.
"I was going to get some things and go during the night. Now you'll have to help me. Tell Christopher to pack a bag—just a clean suit and linen—and bring it here—And—and that's all." He held out his hand with a sober smile. "Good-by, Roger," he finished.
"But I can't let you go like this."
"You've got to. Don't worry. I'm all right. I'm not going to make a fool of myself—or—or drink or anything. I've got to be alone—to do some thinking. I'll write you. Good-by."