“Let me go back with you, Annie. I—I 'll try not to bother you. I didn't mean to just now. Hang it, I never can trust myself when—”
“No, you mustn't come.”
“Not even good night, Annie?”
But she hurried off without a word into the shadows, and felt her way nervously until she reached the central roadway, where it was lighter. It was now getting on toward nine o'clock, and nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing was going to happen, after all. What with her hope that it all might be a mistake, and her fear that she had come on a fool's errand, Annie was in a pretty state of mind. She did not know what to make of Beveridge; she did not know what to make of herself; the natural thing, apparently, was to get angry with Dick, and this she was rapidly doing.
When she was passing the last but one of the lumber piles, hurrying along with less caution than she had used in coming out, a man appeared out of the shadow and blocked the way. She stepped aside and tried to run by, but he, as quick as she, stepped aside too and caught her wrist. Then she saw that it was Beveridge.
“Let me go!” she said breathlessly.
“No, Annie, wait. You decided to warn him, did you?”
“Let me go. You have no right to hold me.”
“Yes I have, more right than you know. Now tell me, why did you do it?”
“Mr. Beveridge—”