“’S all right, Dolly,” he murmured. “I didn’t know. You said—you know, you said——”
“Bill,” she lifted her face. “Don’t you know me yet, at all? Take me away from here—take me away.”
Bill patted her shoulder. Her face was buried against his breast. He put one hand on her forehead and tilted her head back—and kissed her.
“You killed him?” he whispered.
“I did,” she gritted. “I’ve carried that knife you made for me for six months. I jabbed it into him the first time he tried to lay his hands on me. Will they hang me, Bill?”
“Hang you! Good Lord!” Young Bill threw back his head and laughed—the first time Charlie had ever heard him laugh like that, a laugh of sheer relief and happiness. “They ought to give you a medal. Go get your clothes together, Dolly. We’re goin’ away from here for good, you an’ me together.”
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 7, 1927 issue of The Popular Magazine