with a weak laugh. "You had better go after him—down to Nice."
"You don't mean to say he has gone to Nice?"
"Didn't he say he was going there as soon as he came back from London—going right through, without stopping?"
"I don't know but he did," said Delia. Then she added—"The coward!"
"Why do you say that? He can't hide at Nice—they can find him there."
"Are they going after him?"
"They want to shoot him—to stab him, I don't know what—those men."
"Well, I wish they would," said Delia.
"They had better shoot me. I shall defend him. I shall protect him," Francie went on.
"How can you protect him? You shall never speak to him again."
Francie was silent a moment. "I can protect him without speaking to him. I can tell the simple truth—that he didn't print a word but what I told him."
"That can't be so. He fixed it up. They always do, in the papers. Well now, he has got to bring out a piece praising them up—praising them to the skies: that's what he has got to do!" Delia declared, with decision.
"Praising them up? They'll hate that worse," Francie returned, musingly.
