“They aren’t sure of that; besides, if this Reedy and his wife were there, you don’t know that they were hurt!” Andy as instantly felt the instinct to protect and reassure.
“Reedy and ’is wife; no word, eh?” the voice on the road hailed.
“Andy, if I killed them, it was murder! I thought once I heard some one moving inside; then I said I only imagined it; and I did it! Andy!” She was only woman now—all woman of the old, clinging, appealing, precatastrophic kind pleading to man for protection. “You’ve got to find out and help me! Andy, take me away from here—anywhere, any way!”
“Can you stay here a moment by yourself—very quiet, without being afraid?” The instant before the question would have been the essence of lunacy. “Can I leave you—dear?” he ventured now, and she made no protest.
“I think so.”
He held his arm about her to steady her for a moment; he could feel her trembling. Then, cautiously creeping out, he joined the others thronging to witness the smoking ruins of the armory. There men moved, carefully, searching the ground. Andy attentively listened to their remarks, and returned to the hiding place behind the hedge. Roberta—if the evidence of a wet handkerchief balled in her hand meant anything—had spent the interval crying.
“Cheer up; they’ve not found any evidence of any one being caught in the armory,” he reported.
“Tell me the truth,” she implored.
“Well, it seems that this old man, Reedy, and his wife sometimes had been sleeping there; but——”
“Then I did kill them!”