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Nina said, "Henry, can't we go home? Honest, I'm scared. He might kill you, Henry."

Henry got back into the car. He did not immediately start the motor. He leaned his forehead on the wheel and tried to think. If there was any way they could report it without giving their names--But that would be silly. Nobody would believe him. They might not believe him anyway. If he called there was bound to be trouble, big trouble. Mr. Pope would take him apart. Finally he said, "Okay, we'll go on back." He started the car and headed south again, fast, but not as fast as they had come. He felt miserable, empty, a coward.

After a while she leaned her head against his shoulder and said, "Henry, thanks."

He didn't say anything.

"If we'd gone on to the Innlet I'm sure we'd have been too late anyway."

"I guess so."

"They must be through St. Augustine by now."

"Sure." He told himself that after all Nina had begged him not to call, and the only reason he hadn't called was to save her. That's what he told himself, but he didn't quite believe it. He wished she hadn't said, "He might kill you, Henry." If she hadn't said that, he would have gone on until he found a phone.