"Then we go it together—you and I—for all it's worth!" Keenan was saying, with his face near hers and his hand on her motionless arm.
"Listen," she said sharply. "It—it sounds like a bag of lightning getting loose, doesn't it?"
For the message which was leaping from the lonely and dipping ship to the receiving wires at the Highland Heights Station was one that she intended to read, word by word.
It was a simple enough message, but as it translated itself into intelligible coherence it sent a creeping thrill of conflicting fear and triumph through her. For the words which sped across space from key to installation-pole read:
"Woman—named—Allen—will—bring—papers—to—P—Field's—downtown— house—I—will—wait—word—from—you—at—Philadelphia—advise—me— of—situation—there—and—wire—D—in—time—Kerrigan."
It was only then that she was conscious of the theatricalities from which she had emerged, of the man so close beside her, still waiting for her play-acting word of decision. It was only then, too, that she fully understood the adroitness, the smooth and supple alertness, of her ever-wary and watchful companion.
But she rose to the situation without a visible sign of flinching. Taking one deep breath, as though it were a final and comprehensive gulp of unmenaced life, she turned to him, and gazed quietly and steadily into his questioning eyes.
"Yes, if you say it, I'm with you now, whether it's for good or bad!"
"And this is final!" he demanded. "If you begin, you'll stick to it!"
"To the bitter end!" she answered grimly. And there was something so unemotionally decisive in her tone that he no longer hesitated, no longer doubted her.