“No,” Stephen interrupted, “not the Heath—it must be some place where I can get to you; it may not be safe to come back to-night—they may leave some one here to watch.”
“Yes,” Hugh agreed, “they’re almost sure to do that. Where shall I wait, Stevie?”
Stephen Pryde winced at the old name of their playfellow days—Hugh had not used it for years. But he had put his foot upon the fratricidal plowshare of deceit and treachery, and it was beyond him to withdraw it now. At that bitter moment he would have spared his brother if he could—but it was too late. Suffering acutely (probably Cain suffered so once), he said emphatically, “Oakhill! The wood on the other side.”
“But if they find me there,” Hugh objected, “I wouldn’t have a chance to get away.”
Stephen’s hands were still on his brother’s shoulders and he leaned his weight upon them.
“They won’t find you, my boy, trust me.”
It was enough, and Hugh’s answer came instant and content.
“All right, Stephen!”
“Good-by,” the elder said hastily. “I’ll go hurry up Latham; the sooner you are away from here now the better.” He released Hugh, and turned to go. But Hugh held out both his hands, and for a long moment the brothers stood looking earnestly into each other’s eyes, hands gripped—Helen, apart, watching them, dissatisfied. Then Stephen turned on his heel and walked resolutely away, out of the room.