“Some one’s coming,” the girl breathed. Suddenly she flung herself desperately at the telephone. “Buck!” she cried. “There’s some one riding up.... I don’t know, but I’m—afraid.... Yes, do come quickly.... What’s that?”
With a little cry she rattled the hook and repeatedly pressed the round button which operated the bell. “Buck! Buck!” she cried into the receiver.
The thud of hoofs came clearly to her now; it was as if the horse was galloping up the slope from the lower gate.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Mrs. Archer, in a hoarse, dry voice.
With a despairing gesture the girl dropped the receiver and turned a face drained of every particle of color.
“The wire’s—dead,” she said hopelessly.
Mrs. Archer caught her breath sharply, but made no other sound. In the silence that followed they could hear the horse pull up just beyond the veranda, 298 and the sound of a man dropping lightly to the ground. Then came very faintly the murmur of voices.
To the two women, standing motionless, with eyes riveted on the door, the pause that followed lengthened interminably. It seemed as if that low, stealthy, sibilant whispering was going on forever. Mrs. Archer held her little pearl-handled toy with a spasmodic grip which brought out a row of dots across her delicate knuckles, rivaling her face in whiteness. Mary Thorne’s gray eyes, dilated with emotion, stood out against her pallor like deep wells of black. One clenched hand hung straight at her side; the other rested on the butt of the Colt, lying on the stand below the useless instrument.
Suddenly the tension snapped as the heavy tread of feet sounded across the porch and a hand rattled the latch.
“Open up!” called a harsh, familiar voice.