“She's at it again,” muttered Alvin Mead.
Dorothy shook her head. “He wouldn't speak,” she said, faintly. “He would say nothing about it.”
Madelon fairly shook her. “Couldn't you make him speak? You!”
“I couldn't, I couldn't, Madelon!”
“Did you tell him your heart would break if he didn't—that you couldn't marry him if he didn't?”
“Yes—don't, don't—look at me so, Madelon.”
Alvin Mead stepped forward. “Look at here—you're scarin' of that gal to death,” he interfered. “You'd better take your hands off her.”
Then Madelon turned to him, and grasped at the keys in his hands, as if she would wrest them from him. “Unlock the door and let me in, and let Burr Gordon out!” she demanded, wildly.
The jailer wrested his keys away with a contemptuous jerk, and took the skin from Madelon's hands with them. “You're crazy,” he said.
“I am not crazy! You've got an innocent man locked up in there, and I, who am guilty and tell you so, you will not arrest. It is you who are crazy. Let me in!”