He tried to push her away.
"Jim," her voice rose piercingly. "My brother is a convict.... You needn't hide him, but just let him go—give him a sporting chance. Let him go. No one will ever know. Give him a chance."
"Silence, dear. You don't know what you're saying."
The door opened and Perkins entered the room. For a moment there was silence. Not a sound from the conservatory now. Not a sound from the garden outside. The barking of the dogs and the voices of the men had died away.
"You rang, sir?"
"Bring the glasses, a syphon of soda water, and the whisky," Jim said in a strained voice.
Directly the servant had gone he pointed to the sofa on the other side of the fireplace away from the entrance to the conservatory.
"Marjorie, dear, go and sit down there. I understand, and I'm sorry; but I must do my duty."
She looked at him dry-eyed. All the tenderness had left her face. "It's five-score of men against one. Open the door and let him go. Yes, he's bound to be caught to-morrow, but every hour, every minute, every second of freedom must be as sweet to him as our love is to us, Jim. Give him a run—for his money."
Jim had turned his back on her. He disappeared into the conservatory and the door closed behind him.