"It ain't goin' to," she assured him with perfect confidence.
Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even Martha's garrulous tongue was stilled.
The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar, remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable. The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car, the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security under Mrs. Slawson's protecting wing.
Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters profile toward her.
"I hear something back of us. Can you see?"
"No. If I stir she'll wake. You don't think it's him?"
"It may be. Joe Harding's place is down the valley road. He has a car. Buller mayn't suspect we're helping the girl, but when he didn't find her in that direction, Harding may have offered to take a hand in the game."
"Would any man o' conscience help a fella like Buller, who all the neighborhood knows the life he's led this poor creature—him an' the mother, which she's a disgrace to the name."
"No, but Harding ain't a man of conscience,—not so you'd notice it, as you say. If Buller's out on the still-hunt, Harding'd join in for the pleasure of the chase."
"Put on power," directed Martha.