She laughed shortly. "They'd better not try it--that's all!" and on this vague threat turned away and threw herself back into the chair.
"I'm sure," Miss Pride agreed, "I'd much rather not, for my part. And dear Abigail is so peculiar. Perhaps it would be best to wait till she gets back."
"Or hunt her up," Lyttleton amended.
"I guess you're right," Mason agreed, a trace dubiously.
"But what will you do with the girl in the meantime? Take her to jail?"
"No; I guess not yet--not until we see what Mrs. Gosnold thinks, anyway. She ought to be safe enough here. That door locks; we'll take the key. She can't get out of the window without risking her neck--and if she did make a getaway uninjured, she can't leave the Island before morning. Let's move along, as you say, and see if we can't find Mrs. Gosnold."
Skirts rustled behind Sally's sullen back and feet shuffled. Then the door closed softly and she heard the key rattle in the lock.
She sat moveless, stunned, aghast.
Strangely, she did not weep; her spirit was bruised beyond the consolation of tears.
The wall upon which her vacant vision focused was not more blankly white than her despair was blankly black. She was utterly bereft of hope; no ray penetrated that bleak darkness which circumscribed her understanding.