“I—I—,” her throat was dry. “I don’t want to go.”
It was his turn to stare. “At least,” she added, “not yet. You see,” she went on, leaning across the desk, “Jimmie and his plane are down off there on Hell’s Half Hour.”
“Jimmie who?”
“Jimmie Nightingale.”
“What?” He half rose from his chair. “He was on a very secret mission.”
“The mission is safe enough. It was on his way back that they got him. Someone must have tipped the Japs off. Two planes took him by surprise. He got away in his parachute, but hung up in a tall tree, then fell. One leg is injured. He can only drag himself along. He got to his wrecked plane and is living on emergency rations.”
“But how could you know all this?” He stared.
“We had an agreement about listening at ten. I listened tonight. He had his radio going—the speaking end. The listening part is wrecked. The Woman in Purple is up there somewhere. Jimmie is helpless. That’s where I want to go!” Her words came out like a cry in the night.
“You’d give up the big push for Jimmie?” There was a strange light in his eyes.
“Yes, and so would you,” was the quick reply.