The Girl’s eyes opened wide, but they did not look at the Sheriff. They looked straight before her.
“I warned you, girl,” spoke up Ashby, “that you should bank with us oftener.”
The Girl gave no sign of having heard him. Her slender figure seemed to have shrunken perceptibly as she stared stupidly, uncomprehendingly, into space.
“We say that Johnson was—” repeated Rance, impatiently.
“—what?” fell from the Girl’s lips, her face pale and set.
“Are you deaf?” demanded Rance; and then, emphasising every word, he rasped out: “The fellow you’ve been polkying with is the man that has been asking people to hold up their hands.”
“Oh, go on—you can’t hand me out that!” Nevertheless the Girl looked wildly about the room.
Angrily Rance strode over to her and sneered bitingly:
“You don’t believe it yet, eh?”
“No, I don’t believe it yet!” rapped out the Girl, laying great stress upon the last word. “I know he isn’t.”