“He gives you excuses, of course. But they don’t 30 satisfy your mind, do they? They don’t satisfy mine, at any rate. It’s the old trick. Suppose when you reached the coast he didn’t marry you after all and put you off with more promises and after a week or two abandoned you?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t do that!” she cried, with a gulp.
“That’s just what he is planning. He didn’t meet you here until after dark, I judge. You’ll both go to the train separately––I overheard that part. Afterwards he could return from the coast and deny that he had ever had anything to do with you, and it would simply be your word against his. And which would people hereabouts believe, tell me that, which would they believe, yours or his, after you had gone wrong?”
The girl sat frozen. Then suddenly she began to cry, softly and with jerks of her shoulders. Weir reached out and patted her arm.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mary––Mary Johnson.”
“Mary, I’m interfering in your affairs only because I know what men will do. You must take no chances. If this fellow is really anxious to marry you, he’ll do it here in Bowenville.”
After a few sobs she wiped her eyes.
“He said he didn’t dare get the license in San Mateo, or his folks would have stopped our marriage.”
“Then you should stay here to-night, go to the next county seat and be married to-morrow. His parents are bound to learn about it once you’re married. A few days more or less make no difference. And though I should return to my work, I’ll just stay over a day and take you in my car to-morrow to see that you’re married straight and proper. Why go clear to Los Angeles?”