She could not plan for herself nor think of her danger, only of the cobbler, her friend,––the man who had taken her, a little forlorn fugitive, when she had possessed no home of her own—he who had taught her about the angels and the tenderness of Jesus. From her uncle’s last statement she had received an impression that he knew who had fired those shots. He could have Lafe released if he would. She would beg for the cobbler’s life, beg as she had never begged before.
“Please, please, listen,” she implored, throwing out her hands. “You must! You must! Lafe’s always been so good. Won’t you let him live?... I’ll tell him about your wanting the money.... You shall have it! I’ll make any promise for him you want me to, and he’ll keep it.... He didn’t kill Maudlin Bates, and I believe you know who did.”
Morse lowered his lids until his eyes looked like grey slits across his face.
“Supposing I do,” he taunted. “As I’ve said, Grandoken knows too much about me. He won’t be the first one I’ve put out of my way.” 290
He said this emphatically; he would teach her he was not to be thwarted; that when he desired anything, Heaven and earth, figuratively speaking, would have to move. He frowned darkly at her as Jinnie cut in swiftly:
“You killed my father. He told me you did.”
Morse flicked an ash from a cigar he had lighted, and his eyes grew hard, like rocks in a cold, gray dawn.
“So you know all my little indiscretions, eh?” he gritted. “Then don’t you see I can’t give you—your liberty?”
Liberty! What did he mean by taking her liberty away? She asked him with beating heart.
“Just this, my dear child,” he advanced mockingly. “There are places where people’re taken care of and—the world thinks them dead. In fact, your father had a taste of what I can do. Only he happened to––”