Stephan’s voice broke the silence again.
“I came,” he said heavily, “to thank you for keeping Maria from being taken away. And I ask you if you are our friend, as you said. And why you came here.”
Cunningham pondered the reply he should make. He saw Maria looking at him with a curious expression of dawning recognition, of surprized intentness. He glanced up and she flushed slightly. Very abruptly he saw that she had read his expression and that she was discovering the same odd certitude. Their eyes met for the fraction of a second. And then—it was as if there were no more need to speak. She flushed a vivid red, and after that her eyes had difficulty in meeting his.
That, also, was insanity. But such things happen likewise.
“I am your friend,” said Cunningham gruffly, “if Vladimir isn’t. I dislike that man.”
His heart was pounding loudly, though no word had passed between Maria and himself. Stephan eyed him steadily.
“But I’m getting tired,” added Cunningham, “of explaining why I came here and where I came from. Nobody believes me. But you didn’t come to ask me those things only.”
“No,” said Stephan harassedly. “We came to ask you what to do.”
“About what?”
“All things,” said Stephan fiercely. “A man was killed. You know that. There is another man here. You call him Vladimir, and he will have to be killed also. And the sheriff comes and tries to take us away. What shall we do?”