"I been waiting to see you," said Kate. "I want to—I mean—to—talk to you."
He could think of nothing except to blurt with sublime stupidity: "It's good of you. Won't you sit down?"
The girl brought him to his senses with a sharp "Easy! Don't talk out. Do you know what'd happen if Dad found me here?"
"I—" began Terry.
But she helped him smoothly to the logical conclusion. "He'd blow your head off, Black Jack; and he'd do it—pronto. If you are going to talk, talk soft—like me."
She sat down on the side of the bed so gently that there was no creaking.
They peered at each other through the darkness for a time.
She was not whispering, but her voice was pitched almost as low, and he wondered at the variety of expression she was able to pack in the small range of that murmur. "I suppose I'm a fool for coming. But I was born to love chances. Born for it!" She lifted her head and laughed.
It amazed Terry to hear the shaken flow of her breath and catch the glinting outline of her face. He found himself leaning forward a little; and he began to wish for a light, though perhaps it was an unconscious wish.
"First," she said, "what d'you know about Dad—and Denver Pete?"
"Practically nothing."