Presently came his step and he was in front of me, his head bent down with the hair hanging loose on his forehead, and his eyes like they were hooks that would pull the words out of me:
"What happened up there at the Whitneys?"
"Mr. Ferguson," I answered solemn, "I've told you more than I ought already. Is it the right thing for me to go on doing wrong?"
"Yes," he says, sharp and decided, "it's exactly the right thing. Keep on doing it and we'll get somewhere."
I set my lips tight and looked past him at the lawn. He waited a minute then said:
"I thought you agreed to trust me."
"There's a good deal more to it now than there was then."
"All the more reason for telling me. Of course I can get all I want from Mrs. Janney or either of the Whitneys; they don't let ladylike scruples stand in the way. But that means a trip to town and I'm not ready to take it."
It was surprising how that young man could make you feel like a worm who had a conscience in place of common sense.
"Have I got your word, sworn to on the Bible, if we had one here, not to give her a hint of it?"