They ran down the little embankment into the road. She clung tightly to his arm, feeling strangely secure in the rigid strength of it—and proud of it, as well. The night was dark, the road among the trees darker still. After fifteen or twenty paces, Oliver pressed her arm warningly and stopped to listen. Ahead of them, some distance away, they heard footfalls—the slow, regular tread of a man walking in the road.
“I will not go a step farther,” she whispered, holding back as he started to go forward.
He submitted. They stood still, listening. Suddenly the footfalls ceased.
“He knows we have stopped,” said Oliver. “He’s listening to see if we are following.”
She was silent for a moment. “You remember what I said about being spied upon, Oliver. I feel it, I feel it all about me. You are being watched all the time, Oliver. Oh, how hateful, how unfair!”
He put his arm around her. “Jane dear, I am just beginning to understand. They really suspect me. They really think I may have had a hand in—Why, curse them, they—”
“Hush, Oliver!” she cried softly. “The very worst thing you can do is to fly into a rage over this silly—”
“Oh, my Lord!” he gasped, drawing back in sheer astonishment. “You too, Jane? I’ve heard nothing for twenty years but—Hang it all, dear, I want to get mad! I want to rage like a lion and tear things to pieces. Every time I frown the whole blamed town smooths my back and says ‘Now-now!’ And Joe Sikes and Silas Link—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted gently. “But you mustn’t, just the same. You must treat this thing as a—a sort of joke.”
Many seconds passed before he spoke. “It’s pretty difficult to see anything humorous in being suspected of—Oh, I can’t even say it! It’s too awful—too unspeakable!”