“Send six men to 8 o'clock boat. Come with one in hack to courtyard of the Palace Hotel at 7:40.”
Mother Borton's face changed not a whit at the reading, but at the end she nodded. “She knows,” she said.
“What does it mean?” I asked. “What is to happen?”
“Don't go, dearie—you won't go, will you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I must go.”
“Oh,” she wailed; “you may be killed. You may never come back.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “In broad daylight, at the Palace Hotel? I'm much more likely to be killed before I get home to-night.”
Her earnestness impressed me, but my resolution was not shaken. Mother Borton rested her head on the table in despair at my obstinacy.
“Well, if you will, you will,” she said at last; “and an old woman's warnings are nothing to you. But if you will put your head in the traps, I'll do my best to make it safe after you git it there. You jist sit still, honey.” And she took the candle and went to a corner where she seated herself at a stand.
Her shadow grew very large, and her straggling locks sent streamers of blackness dancing on the grimy ceiling. The weird figure, thrown into bold relief by the candle-lighted wall beyond it while all else was in obscurity, gave an uncanny feeling that turned half to dread as I looked upon her. What secret did she hold? What was the danger she feared?