His tongue and throat were parched. All he could say was, 'I'll be back in a few minutes. I can't tell you.'
She held his arm. 'Before you go, tell me what you know of the White Chief?' There was a pause, broken by the rattling of the thunder, then her voice came again, 'Why did you try to kill Sinclair?'
He tried to move onward—naturally the one idea was immediate flight—but she hung to him.
'I can't tell you. I know nothing.'
Then she placed herself between him and the door. Her face was hard and stern.
'You shall not go. I believe you know who this villain is.'
Again he tried to laugh. 'Yes—but I couldn't tell you, or anyone. He's a friend, who often has done me good service. I can't forget him now. He lives in Garry, so I am going out to warn him. I shouldn't like to see him hung.'
The last words were spoken in a thick whisper, while he turned a frightened glance towards the window.
'You liar!' she burst forth. 'Why did you speak to me on fidelity to country? What was the reason of your fear, and why did you see an enemy in every passer by? Why did you almost lose reason when I read that paragraph from the paper? Why did you yourself confess that you tried to shoot Sinclair?'
Deceit was now a useless weapon. The last resource lay in the power of a terrible name coupled with brute force.