“Miss Wentworth,” he said, “Trixie is there, behind the trees. It was she that saw you and called me. If you could agree to it, the very best thing would be to let her take you in. You need not speak to her, and she will do what I tell her.”
She gave a little shiver, but did not object.
“Very well,” she said, “if she has seen me already. You will make her promise not to tell? There is something else—you are very kind—could you do it?”
“Anything,” he said, fervently.
“My head is getting so bad, and I don’t want to be ill here,” she said. “I do so want to get away. And mamma would want to know; there would be so many explanations. It has all got quite clear while I have been crying. Could you get a telegram sent for me, without anybody knowing?”
“Certainly; at once,” he replied. “I have a pencil and paper.”
She pressed her hand to her forehead. Then she quietly dictated an address and a message, which he wrote down without comment.
“You should have the reply this evening,” he said. Then, “Wait here one moment,” he added, and he retraced his steps to Trixie.
“You will do as I tell you, exactly,” he said, “and without a word now or ever to any one? You hear me?”
“I’ll do it,” she said, sulkily, “because it suits me to. All the same, I’d like to know what business it is of yours?”