“You were going to the police-station, Miss Masterson?” Anthony asked.
She nodded.
“You mustn’t—not like this.” He took her gently by the arm. “You could do nothing—and you’d make him feel as if things were unbearable.”
“I must see him.” She spoke dully, an unnatural pause between each word.
“Not now,” said Anthony firmly. “Not when I want your help.” He wondered if the lie showed through his words; cursed that he should have to hamper himself with an hysterical girl.
She swallowed the bait. “Help you?” she asked eagerly. “About—about Archie? How can I do that?
“I can’t tell you here. You must come up to the inn.” He led her back up the hill.
Chapter XIII.
Irons in the Fire
1
Up in his little, low-ceilinged, oak-panelled sitting-room in the Bear and Key, Anthony sat the girl in the one arm-chair. She refused whisky so pleadingly that he ordered tea. When it had come and the bearer departed, he sat on the table and watched her drink.