"They'll not know," growled Blakeman. "Robinson on yesterday's Montreal express is the man. He'll be back to-night. He'll know where she got on. If he'd reported, 'twould have saved this."
"I guess he didn't think we'd struck such an obstacle," remarked Jack, with a chuckle. Then he said aloud, "Don't you suppose they'll be worrying about you, sissy?"
"No, sir," she said, meekly, "they'll be more mad than worried."
"You haven't lost that paper with the address, have you?" said Jack, cunningly.
"No, sir," and she put her hand to her breast.
He got up and walked toward her. "Let me see if I can read it."
"There's no 'casion for that," she said, with dignity.
"You'll have to let me see it," he said, firmly, so firmly that it being no part of her plan to "dare the undareable," she quietly handed Hank's card to him.
"Hobart Dillson, Ciscasset, Maine," he read, then he gave it back to her. "Thank you, sissy. I guess you can go to bed now."
"In a minute," said 'Tilda Jane, submissively, while she made a queer bob of a curtsey to all present. "Gen'l'men all—before I go I must say somethin'. Up-stairs jus' now I was ponderin' on my wickedness. I guess you think I don't know that all liars has their portion in the lake o' fire an' brimstone. I knows it an' feels it, but gen'l'men I ain't told no more lies nor I could help. That 'bout bein' deef an' dumb I can't call a lie, 'cause I felt it, an' I'm s'prised now to hear myself talk. But I have told lies, an' I know it. To-day I had a boss dinner. I went to sleep an' on my bed I dreamed. Somethin' roared an' shook the house an' I woke in a sweat. Did I think the devil had come after me? Yes, sirs—gen'l'men, I've been awful bad, I don't s'pose any of you knows what such badness is. I'm afeared I've got to go on lyin' till I like lies better'n truth. That's what the—what ladies I has known said would happen to little girls as stepped aside from the paths of righteousness."