She gasped, flushed rosy red, but walked straight along with him as he caught the bag from her hands. She looked up at him, astonished, yet not wholly resentful. It was no place for speech on the part of either. The dust of the street seemed naught to him or her, and as for this curious crowd, they did not chill nor offend—Anne Oglesby suddenly wished to take all the world into her arms and greet it. Anne Oglesby at that moment loved—the touch of this man's lips on hers had wrought the irrevocable, immortal, awful change.
They had not yet spoken a word, these two, at the time he left her to call some vehicle for her use. He turned and looked directly into the face of Dan Cowles, sheriff, a man whom he had never seen before, but who now reached out and laid a hand upon his shoulder. Cowles had that instant reached the station platform.
Don would have passed, but the sheriff spoke:
"I want you. Come with me."
The tempestuous blood of the young man flamed at this, but now, as he looked into the solemn face before him, he found something to give him pause.
"What's up?" he demanded. "Who are you?"
"I'm the sheriff of this county," said Cowles. "Come with me."
"What do you want?" again demanded Don. "I'm with this young lady."
"That's no difference," said Cowles.
"It must be about the Tarbush matter," said Dewdonny Lane. "I'll testify, but I know nothing of that. I'll come on over directly. This young lady is going to Judge Henderson's."