“Father has classes,” she explained. “He teaches. I am studying, but my periods are all in the afternoon. He asked me to drive out here and thank you. He—he also wanted me to ask you if the—the way you delivered our package got you into any trouble.”
“It has,” Curlie said, rather bluntly. “Plenty.” He was tired; wanted to clean up and rest. Anyway, what could a girl do?
“My troubles,” he said, taking a step toward the door, “don’t matter.”
“Oh, but they do!” Impulsively her hand gripped his arm. “We—we owe you so much. We can help, I am sure. Won’t you let us? Won’t you tell me about it?”
Curlie could not resist this appeal.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “I’ll tell you.
“But,” he added, as a ghost of a smile flitted across his face, “if I fall asleep, you must waken me.”
He led the way to the fresh outdoor air. There he dropped upon a bench.
He told his story briefly. But to his own surprise, led on by the girl’s expressions of sympathy, excitement and consternation, he told it well.
“And,” she exclaimed as he finished, “you say the man went east from the museum? Perhaps he went over to the island.”