“Oh! You are one of them.” The voice changed suddenly. Now it was low, apologetic. “You are one of them lady soldiers. A WAC they call them, don’t they?”
“Yes. Yes. That’s what I am.” She formed the words but could not say them.
There was no need, for the man went on, “You were perhaps looking for the WAC garage. It is not here. That is another place. You came in—the door locked itself. Is it not so?”
“Yes! Yes! That is it,” she whispered. Lena must not hear her voice or see her face.
“I shall unlock the door. This is all too bad,” said the man who had gripped her arm.
By some magic the door was opened and she stepped out into the night. The light of a car illuminated the man’s face for a second. Then the door slammed shut.
“I’ll know that face if I see it again,” she told herself. She wondered if after all Lena had seen her face—and if she had, what then?
Ten minutes later, panting a little, she entered the hotel, called for her key, then dashed up two flights of stairs to her room.
Having locked and bolted the door, she sank into the chair before her array of pictures.
“Oh, Bill!” she whispered, “I wish I hadn’t come.” She was thinking not alone of Des Moines, but Fort Des Moines, the Army, and all the rest. She was wishing desperately that she might be back with her dad and her dog Spark.