"You—you who boast that when you hunt, out of season, you shoot one shot in the air in order to give a poor wild thing a chance of escape—you bring me here with a lie; close every hope to me, and—call that—victory! You—you—fiend! What do you mean?"
She was standing free at last! She was so weak that she staggered to a chair, fearing that McAlpin, seeing her need, might again lay hands upon her.
"I mean—that I've fired my shot!" Her words had caught his fancy. "You have your chance to—to get away! But where? Where?"
The dark face leered.
"See! I'm going to leave you. Go out into the night. You can try for your—your life, but in the end you'll come to me. I don't care what they of Kenmore will say, I'll know you are—what you are, and sympathy will be with me, gal, when I take you. And you'll know, once you come to me, proper and asking, I'll do—I'll do the best any man could do—for—I love you!"
This was flung out desperately, defiantly.
"Yes, I love you as—Jerry-Jo McAlpin knows how to love. It's his way. Remember that!"
Not a word rose to Priscilla's lips. She saw McAlpin turn and stride to the door; she heard him turn the key and—she was alone! But a strange thing happened just at that moment, a thing that did more to unnerve the girl than anything that had gone before. As the heavy oak door slammed after the retreating figure, the jar caused the tall clock, back among the shadows of the far side of the room, to strike! One, two, three! Then followed a whirring that faded into deathly silence. It was like the voice of one, believed to be dead, speaking!
Frightened, but thoroughly roused to her only hope, Priscilla staggered to the door, clutched the key in cold, trembling fingers, and turned it in the lock. Then, sinking upon her knees, she crept back to the fire, keeping close to the wall. If an eye were pressed to a knothole in the shutter it could not follow her.