"Anne! What made you come?"
The sheriff stepped within the door at the side of Anne Oglesby. "I'd stay about ten minutes or so if I was you," said he, and tried to look unconscious and impersonal.
Don Lane rose now, but stood still apart.
"Why do you say that, Don?" asked Anne, stepping closer to him. "Didn't you know I'd come?"
She reached out her hands to him, and he caught both of them in his.
"I ought to have known you would," said he, "and I know you oughtn't to. It makes it very hard. I said good-by to you—this morning—today."
"Won't you kiss me—again, Don?" asked Anne Oglesby.
He kissed her again, his face white.
"It's hard to know you for so little a while," said he, his young face drawn, his voice trembling—"awfully hard. What time there's left to me—I'll have it all to remember you. But we must never meet after this. It's over."
"Don, if I thought it was all over, do you suppose I'd let you kiss me now?"
"It's like heaven," said he. "It's all I'll have to remember."
"A long time, Don—a very long time!"
"I can't tell. They are not apt to lose much time with my case. The only crime of my life was in ever lifting my eyes to you, Anne. Oh, you know I'd never have done that if I had known—what I found out yesterday. But then I've said good-by to you."
"I didn't say good-by, Don!"
He half raised a hand, shaking his head sadly. "You must forget me, no matter what happens—no matter whether I am cleared or not. I'll never be the coward to ask you to remember me—that wouldn't be right. I'm beyond all hope, whichever way it goes."
"I've come tonight, Don," said she, quietly, "to see about your lawyer."
He half laughed. "There'll be small need for one, and if there were I've got no funds. It will take a lot of money."
"Well, what of that? I've got a lot of money. My guardian told me so today. I'm worth somewhere between a quarter and a half million dollars anyway—I'm not rich—but that would help us."
He laughed at this harshly. "I didn't know you had any money at all. And you think I'd be coward enough to take your money to get out of here—after what I have learned about myself since yesterday? Do you suppose I'd take my life from you—such a life as it's got to be now?"
"What do you mean, Don?—you won't let me go, will you? You don't mean——" She stepped toward him, in sudden terror of his resolution. "Why, Don!"
"Yes, yes. I spent all the afternoon here alone trying to think. Well, I won't compromise. I never meant to pull you into this—I'll not let you be dragged into it by your own great-heartedness. But, Anne, Anne, dearest, dearest, surely you know that when I spoke to you yesterday I didn't know what I know today! I thought I had a father. You know I'd not deceive you—you do know that?"
There was a shuffle on the stone floor of the cell. Sheriff Cowles, coughing loudly, was turning away from them. A moment later the door closed behind him. "Ha-hum!" said he to himself outside the door. "Oh, hell! I wish't I wasn't sher'ff."
They were alone. With the door closed the cell was dark, save for the twilight filtering through the barred windows high up along the wall.
Anne came closer to him and put her hands upon his shoulders. "Oh, Don," said she, "it's hard, awfully hard, isn't it, to start with such a handicap? But when did all the men in the world start even? And is it always the one who starts first that finishes best? Don, you played the game in college—so did I—we've both got to play the game now! We'll have to take our handicap. But you mustn't talk about sending me away. I can't stand everything. Oh, don't! I can't stand that!" Her voice was choking now. She was sobbing, striving not to do so.
He caught her wrists in his hands, as her hands still lay upon his shoulders; but he did not draw her to him.
"Anne," said he, "the time comes in every man's life for him to die. I heard once about a man who could not swim and who saw his wife drown in the stream by him, almost at his side. He ran along and shouted, and said he could not swim. Well, he lived. The woman died. Suppose that had been our case. If we both went down together, it wouldn't be so bad, perhaps. But I'll not have my life as that sort of a gift."
"You won't let me help you, Don?"
"No! I won't let you have anything to do with me! I'll never allow your name to come on my lips, and you must never think of mentioning mine! Only—Anne, Anne—surely you don't think I had any idea before yesterday—about my father? I wouldn't buy my own happiness at that price. I'm no one's son. I'm dead, and doubly dead. But I never knew."
"No," said she, "I know you did not—I know you would not."
They both were so young, as they talked on now, wisely, soberly.
"So you are free," he said, casting away her hands from him, and standing back. "You never were anything but free."
"I'll never be free again, Don," said she, shaking her head. "You kissed me! I'm not a girl any more—I'm a woman now. I can't go back. And now you tell me to go away! Don't you love me, Don? Why, I love you—so much!"
"My God, don't!" he groaned. "Don't! I can't stand everything. But I can't take anything but the best and truest sort of love."
"Isn't mine?"
"No. It's pity, maybe—I can't tell. This is no place for us to talk of that now. You must go away. I hope you will forget you ever saw me. I don't even know my father's name—I don't know whether he is living—I don't know anything! I have been walled in all my life—I'm walled in now. I never ought to have touched even the hem of your garment, for I wasn't fit. But I couldn't help it."
"That's the trouble," said Anne. "I can't help it, either."
"Ah!" he half groaned, "you ought to be kept from yourself."
"Kept from myself, Don? If that were true of all the women in the world, how much world would there be left? That's why I'm here—why, Don, I had to come!"
"Anne! It can't be. It's only cruel for you to tear me up by coming here—by staying here—by standing here. I love you! Anne! Anne! I don't see how it could be hard as this for any man to part from any woman." He was trembling through all his strong frame now.
"But we promised!"
"The law says that a promise is such only when two minds meet. Our minds never met—I didn't know the facts—you didn't know about me—we have just found out about it now."
"Our minds didn't meet?" said Anne Oglesby. "Our minds? Did not our hearts meet—don't they meet now—and isn't that what it all means between a man and a woman?"
He stood, trembling, apart from her in the twilight.
"Don't!" he whispered. "I love you! I will love you all my life! You must go away. Oh, go now, go quickly!"
A merciful footfall sounded on the stone floor of the outer hall. The door opened, letting in a shaft of light with it. Cowles stood hesitating, looking at the two young people, still separated, standing wretchedly.
"I hate to say anything," said the sheriff, "but I reckon——"
"She must go," said Don Lane. "Take her away. Good-by—Anne! Anne! Oh, good-by!"
"Won't you kiss me, Don?" said Anne Oglesby—"when I love you so much?"
There were four tears, two great, sudden drops from each eye, that sprang now on Dan Cowles' wrinkled, sunburned cheeks.
But Don Lane had cast himself down once more on the pallet and was trying with all his power to be silent until after she had gone.
"In some ways," said Dan Cowles to his wife later that night, "he's got me guessing, that young fellow. He don't act like no murderer to me. But since she left, and since all this here happened, he's wild—Lord! he's wild!"