But he waited for the pen and ink.
“We have time enough,” he said, consulting his watch very coolly. “It is not yet half-past eleven.”
He wrote a note and gave it to the Dutchman to be mailed that night.
“If you get into any trouble,” he said to Milicent, “telegraph to this address.”
And he gave her a slip of paper on which was written: “ Gov. ——, Baltimore, Md.”
“The letter is to my uncle, and if you are in any trouble he will help you out. The Governor will be advised of your situation, and a telegram to him will be understood.”
“Good night, ladies, and au revoir,” he said gaily, bowing over our hands. “We will meet in Baltimore.”
“I echo that,” said Mr. Holliway with assumed cheerfulness. “It has been a great pleasure and privilege to know you, ladies. With all its shadows, this journey will always be one of my sweetest memories.”
We might never see them again. We knew it as we looked into Locke’s bonnie blue eyes and Holliway’s dark sad ones. They had been our brave and gentle knights, shielding us and enduring all the hardships cheerfully. One of them was weaker, we knew, because he had given his blanket to keep us warm. We looked bravely back into the two brave faces that looked into ours—one sign of faltering and they would not leave us.
“I will say a ‘Hail Mary’ for each of you every night,” I said.