Jim broke into a genial laugh.
“Ah! Come on, old girl! Open up and be sociable. We're not revenue officers or sheriffs. If you've got any good mountain whiskey, I'll help you drink it.”
“Who are ye?” she repeated savagely.
“Ah, just a couple o' gentle, cooing turtle-doves—a bride and groom. Loosen up, old girl; it's Christmas Eve—and we're just a couple o' gentle cooin' doves——”
Jim kept up his persuasive eloquence until the light of the candle flashed through the window, and he heard her slip the heavy bar from the door.
He lost no time in pushing his way inside.
Nance threw a startled look at his enormous, shaggy fur coat—at the shining aluminum goggles almost completely masking his face. She gave a low, breathless scream, hurled the door-bar crashing to the floor and stared at him like a wild, hunted animal at bay, her thin hands trembling, the iron-gray hair tumbling over her forehead.
“Oh, my God!” she wailed, crouching back.
Jim gazed at her in amazement. He had forgotten his goggles and fur coat.
“What's the matter?” he asked in high-keyed tones of surprise.