'Tilda Jane looked crestfallen, but did not flinch in face of the new difficulty. "He's a cranky ole man. He'll be all right when I talk to him."
"Well, you're a queer fish," muttered her friend, as by way of hiding her chagrin she went quickly up-stairs. "We can't do anything with you till Robinson gets back, and tells us where he picked you up."
The assistant inspector met her in the hall above. "Have you made up your mind to talk yet?" he asked, austerely.
'Tilda Jane shook her head.
"I've been amusing myself by telegraphing along the line," he said, in the same tone of voice. "None of the stations know anything about you, and the agent at McAdam has started off in the woods for his holidays. The conductor that brought you is laid up from an accident to his train, so you've got to speak for yourself; and do you know what I've made up my mind to do?"
"No, sir," she said, steadily.
"By to-night if you won't tell me where you come from, I'm going to take that dog away from you."
Her face turned a sickly yellow, but she did not quail. "You wouldn't shoot him, would you?"
"No, I won't shoot him," he said, deliberately. "I guess I'd give him to some nice little girl who wouldn't tell lies."
'Tilda Jane's head sank on her breast. "Gimme till to-morrow morning, sir. I'd like to think it over."