"I will tell you." He sank down wearily, and took the cap from his head.
"My heart has been filled with horror," Ruth went on, giving Andy time to catch his breath. "I dared not tell any one what really happened. They think you merely went as guide. I never expected to see you alive again. I am not sure that I do now!" She smiled pitifully, and came near Andy to chafe his cold hands.
"I'm alive," the boy faltered. "But, oh! Ruth, I have lived years." Then brokenly, and with aching heart, he told the story of the past hours. Ruth never took her eyes from his face, but her color came and went as she listened. The tale was ended at last, ended with all the tragic detail and the showing of the scraps of paper. Then Ruth stood up.
"Andy," she said, in her prompt fashion, "the house is empty. Mother has gone to your home, father will be away until to-morrow. The children are easily managed. Now I want you to go in the upper room after you have eaten. I want you to rest all day and then—then I have something to tell you and—there is more to do."
"Yes; these," sighed Andy, looking at the papers. "I should start at once with these."
"'Twould be folly. There are awful doings afoot, Andy McNeal. It is no time for a mid-day walk to Harlem Heights. You must do as I say. Come in now; you are starved and utterly spent."
Andy followed gladly. It was the course, the only course, of wisdom.
He ate ravenously, and drank a quart of rich milk. Ruth was busied in the room above, and when the meal was finished Andy joined her.
"Now," she smiled, "everything is ready." He found a pail of hot water, and some of the minister's clothing lay on a chair. "They'll have to do, Andy, until I can wash and dry yours," said Ruth.
"What matters?" answered Andy. "If I sleep I shall not mind the rest."