“Nothing; but there’s a kind of a communication, everywhere. Nothing has been heard of him. So long as nothing is heard of him I can breathe free. There’s no reason he should come here——”
“Come here! For what would he come here?”
“How can I tell? If you knew the man——”
“God forbid I should ever know the man,” she cried with fervour.
“I say Amen to that. But if you knew him, you would know it’s the place that is least likely which is the place where he appears.”
“It may be so,” Mrs Ogilvy said; “but a place like this—a small bit house deep in the bosom of the country, and nothing but quiet country-folk about——”
“What is that but the best of places for a hunted man? He said once that if I ever came home he would come after me—that it was just the place he wanted to lie snug in, where nobody would think of looking for him. You think me a fool to be so anxious about the bolts and the bars; but the room might be empty one moment, and the next you might look round, and he would be there.”
Though it was morning, before noon, and the safety of the full day was upon the house, with its open windows, he cast a doubtful suspicious glance round, as if afraid of seeing some one behind him even now.
“Robbie,” said Mrs Ogilvy, “there is no man that has to do with you, were he good or bad, that I would close my doors upon, except the shedder of blood. He shall not come here.”
“There is nothing I can refuse him,” cried the young man. “I would say so too. I say, Curse him; I hate his very name. He’s done me more harm than I can ever get the better of. I’ve seen him do things that would curdle your blood in your veins; but him there and me here, standing before each other—there is nothing I can refuse him!” he cried.