She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted. “But I’d rather not speak—not just now.”
“Why not?”
“There may develop complications; complications which I can’t now explain.”
“But at least,” he urged, “can’t you give me a hint of what your answer will be, if complications do not interfere?”
She thought rapidly. He was pressing her hard from one direction, and outside sat Loveman, a danger from another direction—watching her, ready to expose and destroy her at the slightest sign of failure. Of the two she just then feared Loveman the more. She had to put Morton off—she had to have some weapon against Loveman.
An idea flashed into her brain—a desperate idea, but she was now playing a desperate game.
“Won’t you please give me a hint?” he insisted.
“Well,” she said, with the air of one consenting, “here is a proposition that may sound to you absurd—but then a woman is supposed to be irrational. For my own reasons I can’t now tell you what my answer is, but I’ll write it out in a letter and give it to you if you’ll promise not to read it until you have my permission. That way you’ll always have my answer with you. I may telephone or telegraph you, when I’m ready for you to open the letter.”
“I promise,” he agreed.
“Then I’ll write it here,” she said.