“I can’t go back—I won’t go back!” he cried in a desperate voice. “You don’t know what you are asking of me!”
A pang of curiosity shot through Anne against her will. Why and of what was he so full of hatred and fear? But her manner was calm and impersonal as she approached him.
“Perhaps you might let them know that you are safe and with friends, and let it go at that?” she suggested soothingly.
He shot her a strange look.
“Much she cares about my safety!” he muttered under his breath. Anne heard with an unacknowledged but irritating pang. So there was a wife, after all, in spite of his almost adolescent appearance!
“Shall I send your wife a telegram?” she inquired in a matter-of-fact tone.
“My wife!” he stared at her in surprise. “My mother, you mean!”
Relief welled up in Anne’s heart, but she chose to ignore its humiliating presence. “Your mother, then?” she pursued evenly.
“Yes I suppose we had better,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “But she is absolutely not to know where I am, or to try to communicate with me until I myself make the first move. That is to be understood.”
“Very well,” said Anne with composure. “I’m sure we can manage that. It might be a good idea to write a letter and have my chauffeur take it down to New York and mail it from there? Or perhaps it would be even better if he took it to your house and left it there. Then there would be no postmark.”