“It was the word he used to me when he came upon me last night. If he is in danger of his life, he is not safe for a moment here.”
“Rubbish!” said Robbie; “why is he not safe? It is as out of the way as anything can be. Not a soul about but your village people, who don’t know him from Adam, nor anything about us, good or bad. I am just your son to them, and he is just my friend.”
“If that were so! It is not a thing I know about: it is only what you have told me, him and you. He said he was in danger of his life.”
“He was a fool for his pains; but he always liked a sensation, and to talk big——”
“Then it is not true?”
She looked at him, and he at her. He was pale, too, with the doings of last night, but a quick colour flashed over his face under her eyes. “I am not going to be cross-examined,” he said. Then after a pause: “It may be true, and it mayn’t be true—if they’re on his track. But he doesn’t think now that they are on his track.”
“He thought so last night, Robbie.”
“What does it matter about last night? You’re insufferable—you can imagine nothing. There is a difference between a man when he’s tired and fasting, and when he’s had a good rest and a square meal. He doesn’t think so now. He’s quite happy about us both. He says we’ll pull along here famously for a time. You so motherly (he likes you), and Janet such a good cook, and the whisky very decent. He’s a connoisseur, I can tell you!—and nobody here that has half an idea in their heads——”
“You may be deceived, there,” said Mrs Ogilvy, suddenly resenting what he said—“you may be deceived in that, both him and you——”
“Not about the cook and the whisky,” said Robbie, with a laugh. “In short, we think we can lie on our oars a little and watch events. We can cut and run at any moment if danger appears.”