“Always an 'except,'” I said half-bitterly.
“But you have promised to tell me—”
“Some day. As soon as I may.” Under her magnetic influence, I should have told her then had she urged me. And not until I was once more outside the house did I recall how impossible it was that I could ever tell her.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” was the refrain that ran through my brain insistently, as the battle between love and duty rose and swelled. And I was sorely tempted to tell the Unknown to look elsewhere for assistance, and to bury the memory of my dead friend and the feud with Doddridge Knapp in a common grave.
“Here's some one to see you, sir,” said Owens, as I reached the walk, and joined the guards I had left to wait for me. The rain had ceased, but the wind, which had fallen during the day, was freshening once more from the south.
“Yes, sor, you're wanted at Mother Borton's in a hurry,” said another voice, and a man stepped forward. “There's the divil to pay!”
I recognized the one-eyed man who had done me the service that enabled me to escape from Livermore.
“Ah, Broderick, what's the matter?”
“I didn't get no orders, sor, so I don't know, but there was the divil's own shindy in the height of progression when I left. And Mother Borton says I was to come hot-foot for you, and tell you to come with your men if ye valued your sowl.”
“Is she in danger?”