"I know what I know," replied the woman, sullenly, "and it wouldn't take much to make me tell it."
"Then, for heaven's sake, say what you have to say and be done with it," I exclaimed. "Only a very few minutes lie between this person and safety. If you have anything to tell out with it."
"Your blue eyes and baby face fooled me once, but they'll not fool me again. You know more than you pretend to know," said the woman.
"I know this: if this person remains here ten minutes longer he will regret it all the days of his life. Now, trust me or not, just as you please. If he is afraid to come with me let him say so, and I will bid him farewell forever and all who are connected with him. Do you trust me?" I turned to Jane Ryder and held out my hand.
"I do," she replied. She came nearer, but did not take my hand.
"Then, in God's name, come with me!" I cried. She obeyed my gesture and started for the door.
"Where are you going?" wailed the mother. "Tell me—tell me!"
I was sorry for her, but I made her no answer.
I anticipated this scene as little as I did the fact that Jane Ryder would come with me. I was prepared to carry her off if she refused, but I was ill prepared for the rumpus that this quiet-looking woman kicked up. She followed us to the door and stood wailing while I tried to persuade Jane Ryder to mount my horse. She hesitated, but I fairly lifted her into the saddle. The stirrup-straps were too short, but that made no difference. I sprang on the horse behind her, and, reaching forward, seized the reins and turned the horse's head in a direction that would bring us into the town by a detour, so that we should miss the Independents, who would follow the road that I had followed in coming.
"Where are you taking me?" inquired Jane Ryder.