“I suppose not.” Jean looked perplexed. “Anyhow, let’s do our best, Jo. He looks so young and miserable. Perhaps, if he escaped, he might never steal again.”
“Why, I’d help him to escape, quick enough—if I could see how,” Jo said, with calm disregard of the law. “But that’s the trouble. And we mustn’t land Father in a hole—if we can help it, that is.”
“No,” agreed her twin. “Not if we can help it.”
It was distressingly clear that if the choice came between inconveniencing their father or the patient, Mr. Weston might have to go to the wall.
“Perhaps we could keep him fed for a few days, and then let him take his chance of escaping,” Jo pondered. “But we just couldn’t hand him over to the police, Jeanie.”
“And what if the police come out here and question us?”
This was a horrible possibility which had not occurred to Jo. She thought a moment.
“We’ll make for the bathing-pool!” said she.
“They can’t question us if we’re swimming round in bathing-suits!”
Mr. Weston had carried the mail-bag out to the verandah, where his wife lay back in a long chair. For once, her busy fingers were idle, and she was very pale.