A sudden color burnt in her wasted cheeks.
"They suspect my husband. They think he did it—to—to—get square. We'd quarreled—separated—and he'd made threats."
"Ah, yes, yes, I see—kidnaped his own child, and they're keeping it quiet. I understand perfectly. But you didn't believe this?"
She shook her head and bit on her underlip to control its trembling.
"No—I couldn't, though I tried to. I knew he wouldn't have done it—it's not—it's not—like him. And then while I was thinking the letter came, and I knew, no matter what they thought, no matter what the facts were, that that was true."
"Um," Larkin, his mouth compressed, nodded in understanding. "You would know better than any one else. In these matters instinct is one of the most important factors." He was silent for a moment, then looked at her, a glance of piercing question. "Do I understand that you are willing to enter into these negotiations?"
"Willing!" she cried. "Why should I be here if I wasn't willing?"
"Yes, yes, exactly, but let us understand one another. What I mean is are you willing—realizing what they are—to deal with them on their own terms? In short, pay them what they ask and let them go?"
"Of course." She almost cried it out in her effort to make him comprehend her position. "That's what I want to do; that's why I haven't told any of my own people and won't. I'd have gone straight to my mother with this but I knew she wouldn't agree to it, she'd get the police, want to fight them and bring them to justice."
"Could you be relied on to maintain the secrecy necessary?"