“But McGregor?” I asked, in a hoarse whisper.
She drooped her head on my shoulder.
“I daren’t stay here, Jack, with him,” she whispered. “If you can’t take me away, I must go to the President. I shall be at least safe with him!”
“Damn the ruffian!” I growled; not meaning the President, but his successor; “I’ll shoot him!”
“No, no, Jack!” she cried. “You must be quiet and cautious. But I must go to-night—to-night, Jack, either with you or to the President.”
“My darling, you shall come with me,” said I. — “Where?”
“Oh, out of this somewhere.”
“How are we to escape?”
“Now, you sit down, dear, and try to stop crying—you break my heart—and I’ll think. It’s my turn now.”
I carried her to the sofa, and she lay still, but with her eyes fixed on me. I was full of rage against McGregor, but I couldn’t afford the luxury of indulging it, so I gave my whole mind to finding a way out for us. At last I seemed to hit upon a plan.