He still seemed to be under strange influences, but he no longer felt as though his strength was gone. His heart was strangely light, too. The presence of the girl by his side gave him comfort.
"You are not angry with me, then? I've not done wrong, have I?"
"Wrong? No! You have done quite right—quite. Thank you very, very much."
"I'm glad of that. When I had left our house I wanted to run to you. Then I thought of the car. I've learnt to drive, and Granddad thinks I'm very clever at it. I simply flew through the park. But I'm glad you are in no danger. I must go now."
She had not once looked at Romanoff; she simply stood gazing at Dick with wide-open, childish-looking eyes, and her words came from her almost pantingly, as though she spoke under the stress of great excitement. Then she looked at the paper before him.
"You are not going to write your name on that, are you?" she asked.
"No," he replied; "I'm not."
"You must not," she said simply. "It would be wrong. When I heard the words telling me to come to you I—I saw—but no, I can't recall it. But you must not sign that. I'll go now. Good-night, and please forgive me for coming."
"Please don't go yet."
"But I must. I could not stay here. There's something wrong, something evil. I'm sure there is."