“That doesn’t—matter—,” she turned toward the door again, wishing she were out on the sidewalk now in the cool air. Her heart was beating so fast again, and she was sure she was going to cry!
Perhaps the dewy look about her eyes gave warning of this, for the man suddenly changed his tone toward her:
“Look here, little girl, don’t take this thing too seriously. You’ve done an awfully sporty thing, coming here to tell me this, after the way that young rascal of a son of mine treated you. There’s just a chance that you may be right, and he is unconscious in a hospital somewhere. I shall leave no stone unturned, of course, to make sure. But in the meanwhile we’ll keep this thing quiet. Now, please give me your name. I’ll keep it to myself, understand, and I won’t let the kid know you’ve been here either, if you don’t want me to. Chapparelle? you say, Elizabeth Chapparelle? Your father living? I used to know a man in business by that name, but that’s a good many years ago. Fine chap he was too.”
“My father has been dead a good many years,” said Elizabeth, with a delicate withdrawal in her voice.
“You live on Maplewood Avenue? What number? You won’t mind if I drop in perhaps, to ask you a few more questions, in case anything turns up?”
“Of course,” said Elizabeth.
“By the way, what was the name of that hospital? And about what time did the accident occur? You understand, you know, that we’re going to keep this out of the papers. And by the way, who else knows all this?”
“Nobody but my mother.”
“Your mother?” There was speculation in the tone, a rising inflection.
“You needn’t be afraid of mother!” she said haughtily, “she was quite annoyed with me for having got into the car at all, and she is terrified at what might have happened.”