Then his captor thrust him savagely forth.
The other man, glancing back at Julie, paused an instant, caught by the anguish of her face. “Here, quick,” he whispered awkwardly, “ain’t you got a token—a keepsake for him? Maybe I’ll git a chanst to slip it to him.”
She looked wildly about the room. What should she send him? She started to take up the pieces of the broken cup, but her heart cried out, “No, no, not that!”
“Quick! Quick!” he urged her. “Your handkerchief?”
But her handkerchief was all sodden with the tears they had shed together. She shook her head dumbly. Hurried and confused, her mind was blank. Her gaze fell to the breakfast table. There was a pile of waffles still fresh and warm. To her dazed thought at that moment they were not food, they were symbols of her heart. With a hand that shook she caught up one and held it out mutely to the man.
“No, no,” he whispered sharply, “think what you’re doing, woman. A keepsake—a keepsake! Here—what about this?”
He picked up a picture postcard from the mantelpiece. It was a photograph of herself and Tim taken together.
“Yes, yes,” she nodded gratefully.
“I’ll slip it to him if I git the chanst,” he promised again.
“What will they do to him?” Julie breathed.