Their eyes met.
“What I said last night holds good, you know,” she said with effort.
He turned slowly to the door as if in indecision, and Pidge watched. She knew she could make him take the money, but she wanted him to be ready to die first.
“There was nothing in the other stories, either—from Higgins’ point of view?” he asked.
Pidge was white. She felt like an executioner. “The package was mailed back to you to-day.”
For just an instant his head was bowed again, half turned to the door. Then he veered around and his hand came out to hers.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night. But you—that quiet room in Cleveland——”
He shook his head with a slow, dawning smile.
“It’s great to know you. I’ve heard about such people being here in the Village, but it’s—‘It’s fourteen miles from Schenectady to Troy.’”