Freckles reached up and turned the Angel's face until he compelled her eyes to meet his.
“Angel,” he asked quietly, “why don't you look at me when you are telling about that lost boy?”
“I—I didn't know I wasn't,” faltered the Angel.
“It seems to me,” said Freckles, his breath beginning to come in sharp wheezes, “that you got us rather mixed, and it ain't like you to be mixing things till one can't be knowing. If they were telling you so much, did they say which hand was for being off that lost boy?”
The Angel's eyes escaped again.
“It—it was the same as yours,” she ventured, barely breathing in her fear.
Still Freckles lay rigid and whiter than the coverlet.
“Would that boy be as old as me?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the Angel faintly.
“Angel,” said Freckles at last, catching her wrist, “are you trying to tell me that there is somebody hunting a boy that you're thinking might be me? Are you belavin' you've found me relations?”