As if this odd explanation made everything clear, Betty Neal sprang from her chair and she grew so pale that every freckle stood out.
“Him!” she echoed ungrammatically.
Then: “Where is he? Let me downstairs.”
But the widow closed the door swiftly behind her and leaned her comfortable bulk against it.
“You ain't goin',” she asserted. “You ain't goin', leastways not till you got time to think it over.”
“I haven't time to think. I—he—”
“That was the way with me,” nodded Mrs. Sommers, and her eyes were tragic. “I went ahead and married Johnny in spite of everything, and look at me now—a widder! No, I ain't sorry for myself because I was a fool.”
“Mrs. Sommers,” said Betty, “will you please step out of my way?”
“Honey, for heaven's sake think a minute before you go down and face that man. He's dangerous. When I opened the door and seen him, I tell you the shivers went up my back.”
“Is he thin? Is he pale?” cried Betty Neal. “How did he get away? Did he escape? Did they parole him? Did they pardon him? Did he—”