"You know what I mean," she explained, reddening a bit. "You must be nearly famished."
"I prefer to think of something more interesting," he said coolly.
"It is horrid!" she sobbed. "See, it is getting dark. Night is coming. Mr. Crosby, what is to become of us?" He was very much distressed by her tears and a desperate resolve took root in his breast. She was so tired and dispirited that she seemed glad when he drew her close to him and pressed her head upon his shoulder. He heard the long sigh of relief and relaxation and she peered curiously over her wet lace handkerchief when he muttered tenderly:
"Poor little chap!"
Then she sighed again quite securely, and there was a long silence, broken regularly and rhythmically by the faint little catches that once were tearful sobs.
"Oh, dear me! It is quite dark," she cried suddenly, and he felt a shudder run through her body.
"Where could you go to-night, Mrs. Delancy, if we were to succeed in getting away from here?" he asked abruptly. She felt his figure straighten and his arm grow tense as if a sudden determination had charged through it.
"Why—why, I hadn't thought about that," she confessed, confronted by a new proposition.
"There's a late night train for Chicago," he volunteered.
"But how are we to catch it?"