“June seventh!” I exclaimed.
“Sh—sh——” he made a quick gesture for silence, and peered again all about in the semi-twilight made by the still dour, cloudy sky and mist and dripping, close-growing shrubbery. “Yes. The night of June seventh. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what my duty is. I don’t want to get nobody into trouble. But I can’t go on no longer without telling somebody. I thought you, Miss Keate, would know what to do.”
“What is it?” I asked quickly.
He did not reply at once. Instead he looked uneasily all about us, examining the surroundings with an intensity that impressed upon me the need for caution as to the matter he was about to relate. Unconsciously I drew nearer him.
“Go on,” I said.
He surveyed me doubtfully.
“I wish I knew whether I was doing right or not,” he mused with a worried air. “You see—I don’t want to get into trouble myself, either.”
Poor Higgins!
“I’ll see that you do not,” I promised rashly, little knowing how impossible it would prove to be to keep my word.
He cleared his throat, glanced toward the path again.