She had followed him to the hall. Now she put her hand upon his arm and descended the stairs in his company.
“No one has thanked you for bringing him home, Bob,” she said. “We are all grateful, you know that. And, of course, you understand—”
“Yes,” hurriedly. “Yes, certainly. Good-night.”
“Just a minute, please. Bob, how did this happen? Where was he? And where were you—so late? How did you happen to find him?”
These were the very questions he had begun to hope he might escape, for that night at least. That they would have to be answered somehow, and at some time, he realized only too well, but what his answers should be he had not yet decided. And he must have time in which to consider. In spite of the shock to his nerves, in spite of the difficulty of thinking of anything except the terrible thing which had happened, he had thought sufficiently to realize a little of the problems confronting him. If he could only get away from that house without being subjected to cross-examination then—well, then he might be able to make up his mind as to how much of the truth should be told. So far as he was concerned he had nothing to hide; but there were others—so many others.
And now here was one of these others—the very one whose name must be kept out of this miserable mess—must be—regarding him anxiously and repeating the questions he dreaded.
“Bob,” she urged, “why don’t you tell me? Where did it happen? Why were you the one to find him?”
He answered without looking at her.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, hurriedly. “It just happened, I guess. I will tell your uncle all about it by and by, of course. You mustn’t wait now. They may need you upstairs. Good-night.”
“But, Bob, where had you been? Where were you?”