“I can't go through with the play,” she wailed.
“We've got to use all the grit that's in us—whatever it is we're up against. Come! Hold out your arms!” He assisted her with the coat.
He drew her toward the door with his arm about her. “We'll make a good long day of it to-morrow—a holiday. George Washington never told a lie. Perhaps those books will come to themselves in the morning and realize what day it is and will stop lying! Now be brave!”
The kiss he gave her was long and tender; she clung to him. He released her, but she turned in the corridor and hurried back to him. “I shouldn't feel as I do—worried sick about you, Frank! The books must come out right, because both of us have been careful and honest.”
“Exactly! The thing will prove itself in the end. The money in that vault will talk for us! I'll do a little talking, myself, when—But no matter now!”
“You have suspicions! I know you have!”
“Naturally, not believing as much in ghosts or demons as I may have intimated to Starr.”
She looked apprehensively over her shoulder into the dark corners of the corridor. Then she drew his face down close to hers. “And it's hard to believe in the reformation of demons,” she whispered.
“I'm doing a whole lot of thinking, little girl. But I don't want to talk now. Do your best at the play. Hide your troubles behind smiles—that's real fighting! And we'll see what to-morrow will do for us.”
“Yes, to-morrow!” She ran away, but again she returned. “And nothing can happen to you here, in a quiet town like this, can it, Frank?” she asked.