He tried to see her closely but her head was down.
“No, you’re not crazy,” he commented, “so there must be a story or a mystery to you. Can I walk home with you—the hundred and thirty-nine miles?”
“It’s too far—and I’m really better alone.”
“Please. I’m not in the least dangerous and I don’t want to annoy you. But you must admit that a young woman at three o’clock in the morning ought to let somebody accompany her on such prodigious walks. I’m out for one myself. I’d enjoy it.”
He talked like an Englishman—or an Irishman, thought Freda. And why shouldn’t she talk to him. It was all too ridiculous anyway. But rather exciting.
“I’m in a very silly mess,” she told him, “and I haven’t any place to go to-night.”
“And you wish I’d mind my own business?”
“No—but there’s nothing you can do. I’m not in the least a tragedy. In the morning I can straighten things out. I haven’t committed any murders or anything like that. But I said I wouldn’t go back to-night, and I won’t.”
The young man considered.
“Is it by any chance a husband to whom you made that statement?”