He was at his desk at work as usual next morning.
She wrote him a note and begged that he call at once. He came within
half an hour, a wistful smile lighting his face as he extended his hand:
"I am forgiven for having been born abroad?"
"I have sent for you--"
"I've waited long."
"It's not the first time I've asked you to call," she cried in strained
tones.
"No?"
She held his gaze with steady intensity.
"I sent for you the night young Dahlgren's body was stolen--"
"Really?"
"It was raining. I was horribly depressed. I couldn't endure the
strain. I meant to surrender utterly and trust you--"
"I didn't get your message--"
"I know that you didn't--where were you?"
"Engaged on important business for the Government--"
"What Government?"
"How can you ask such a question?"
"I do ask it. I sent for you three times--the third time after midnight.
It wasn't very modest, perhaps, I was so miserable I didn't care. I just
wanted to put my arms around your neck and tell you to love me
always--that nothing else mattered--"
"Nothing else does matter, dearest--"
"Yes--it does. It matters whether you have used me to betray my people.
Where were you at twelve o'clock night before last?"
"I'd rather not tell you--"
"I demand it--"
A quizzical smile played about Socola's handsome mouth as he faced her
frankly.
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