“Do you?” The surprise in the tone was partly real. “Do you know a bad man?”
“Yes—I know one.” It was a modest little drawl—an assertion of wisdom tinged with importance. “He’s a very bad man,” she added.
“No?”
The half-teasing note did not touch her. “He kills folks—He killed my father,” she said tersely. The words were light on her tongue, but she nodded to him with deep serious eyes that his could not fathom. Something in the eyes hurt him—a kind of trust and ignorance and deep appeal. He put his arm protectingly about the little form, drawing it close.
“You must not say things like that, Ellen.”
“Gran’ther says it.”
“But you must not.... You will not say it again—?” It was half a command. “Don’t ever say it again, Ellen.”
“No—o—” It was reassuring and polite-half drawled; and it dismissed the subject idly—They had dwelt on it too long.
“Where is the key?” She was dipping toward the paper, peering close.
“The key?” He stared a little—“Oh—yes—This is the key.” His pencil touched the parallel lines.