“Oh, it's all right, of course; well, I 'll step in and see how Annie feels about going.”
A second time they parted, and a second time Beveridge walked away. He looked over his shoulder, and saw Annie running down the beach for something she had left in the Captain. He hurried back and intercepted her.
“Annie.”
“Yes.”
“I don't know if you understand—you see, I have gone a good way in telling you what I have—”
“Oh, of course, if you want to take it back—”
“But I don't. Not a word of it. I was only going to say—” he hesitated again. She waited. “It isn't what I have asked you for myself; that stands, Annie, and always will. It's the other. Don't you see how I have put myself in your hands? I never did such a thing before in my life. Just by letting you know that there's going to be something going on here to-night, and by asking you to be away, I have put a lot of power in your hands. You won't mind—you won't be offended—if I ask you not to breathe a word of it to a soul?”
He waited, hoping for some reassuring word or sign, but she only looked at him with wide eyes.
“You see a chance word might undo everything. If—” he glanced out toward the two schooners—“if a hint of the facts gets out there to him—don't you see? It simply can't happen. You know why I've told you. It was because I love you, because I want to save you from it all,—that's why I've put myself in your hands.”
But all she said was, “Don't say any more; I must go in.”