Page:A Son at the Front (1923) Wharton.djvu/193

The same thought had tightened Campton's own heart-strings; but he had hoped she would not say it.

"It may be George's turn any day," she insisted.

They sat and looked at each other without speaking; then she began again imploringly: "I tell you there's not a moment to be lost!"

Campton picked up a palette-knife and began absently to rub it with an oily rag. Mrs. Brant's anguished voice still sounded on. "Unless something is done immediately. . . It appears there's a regular hunt for embusqués, as they're called. As if it was everybody's business to be killed! How's the staff-work to be carried on if they're all taken? But it's certain that if we don't act at once . . . act energetically. . ."

He fixed his eyes on hers. "Why do you come to me?" he asked.

Her lids opened wide. "But he's our child."

"Your husband knows more people—he has ways, you've often told me———"

She reddened faintly and seemed about to speak; but the reply died on her lips.

"Why did you say," Campton pursued, "that you had come here because you wanted to see me without Brant's knowing it?"

She lowered her eyes and fixed them on the knife he was still automatically rubbing.

"Because Anderson thinks . . . Anderson won't . . . He says he's done all he can."