"When you came to the door, what was your first thought?"
"A-w-w," the man sighed, his face clearing and infinite comprehension sounding in his voice. "I have no moccasins. I t'ink pretty damn cold." His satisfied expression changed to naive surprise when an outburst of laughter greeted his statement, but he went on stolidly. "One more shot I hear, and I run down the trail."
Then Corliss pressed in through the crowd to Frona, and she lost what the man was saying.
"What's up?" the engineer was asking. "Anything serious? Can I be of any use?"
"Yes, yes." She caught his hand gratefully. "Get over the back-channel somehow and tell my father to come. Tell him that Gregory St. Vincent is in trouble; that he is charged with— What are you charged with, Gregory?" she asked, turning to him.
"Murder."
"Murder?" from Corliss.
"Yes, yes. Say that he is charged with murder; that I am here; and that I need him. And tell him to bring me some clothes. And, Vance,"—with a pressure of the hand and swift upward look,—"don't take any . . . any big chances, but do try to make it."
"Oh, I'll make it all right." He tossed his head confidently and proceeded to elbow his way towards the door.
"Who is helping you in your defence?" she asked St. Vincent.