“You're right,” she said. “I'm an old fool, and you've got the real sand. You're the first one except Henry Wilton that's trusted me in forty years, and you won't be sorry for it, my boy. You owe me one, now. Where would you have been to-night if I hadn't had the light doused on ye?”
“Oh, that was your doing, was it? I thought my time had come.”
“Oh, I was sure you'd know what to do. It was your best chance.”
“Then will you help me, now?” The old crone considered, and her face grew sharp and cunning in its look.
“What can I do?”
“Tell me, in God's name, where I stand. What is this dreadful mystery? Who is this boy? Why is he hidden, and why do these people want to know where he is? Who is behind me, and who threatens me with death?”
I burst out with these questions passionately, almost frantically. This was the first time I had had chance to demand them of another human being.
Mother Borton gave me a leer.
“I wish I could tell you, my dear, but I don't know.”
“You mean you dare not tell me,” I said boldly. “You have done me a great service, but if I am to save myself from the dangers that surround me I must know more. Can't you see that?”