"But Una! What shall I say?"
"Una!" He turned away and bent his head. "My God!" he said and then repeated the words below his breath, almost like a prayer, and then, turning, with a wild gesture, "Tell her anything, Roger. Say I'm all right but I can't see her. Say I had a telegram—called West on a Railroad matter—anything. Now go."
He caught me by the hand with a crushing grip while he pushed me toward the door.
"You will not—?"
"I'm all right, quite. Don't fear for me. I'll come back—soon. Now go, old chap. I'll wait for Christopher here. Hurry, please."
He spoke kindly but sharply. I could see that argument was of no avail. His mind was made up and with Jerry that was final. Whatever had happened—and from his appearance I suspected a soul-wrenching struggle—he was at least for the present physically safe and entirely sane. But it was with serious misgivings that I slipped past the somnolent Jack and upstairs to Jerry's room, where I found Christopher and together we packed a bag, descending by the back stairs, where I took the bag from Christopher's hand and sent him to bed.
In a moment I was in the garage with Jerry.
"Oh, you—!" he frowned.
"Let me go with you at least as far as town," I pleaded.
"No," gruffly. "No one." He threw the bag into the car and clambered quickly in.