“The sheet off Mr. Paul’s bed after he was murdered,” with a slow, knowing wink, which sent the hot blood to her cheeks. Her color ebbed as quickly as it had come, leaving her deadly pale. “The sheriff was mighty curious to know if I had shown you where to get clean linen for the bed when you fust come. Don’t worry,” observing her expression and misinterpreting it. “I didn’t give him no direct answer.”
“What!” Corbin drew back at the force of her exclamation. “Why didn’t you tell him at once that you showed me the linen closet?”
He leered at her. “There wasn’t any call for me to give you away—then”—he supplemented.
Miriam missed the last word. Her eyes were blazing with indignation.
“And so you let Mr. Trenholm infer—”
“What he pleased—yes, Miss!”
Miriam’s small hands were clenched. “You contemptible cur!” she cried, and would have added more but wrath choked her utterance.
“Here, Miss, don’t you be so handy with misnamin’ me,” protested Corbin. “I’ve got feelin’s like other fellows and I done ye a good turn.”
“By concealing the truth!” scornfully. “You are not only a knave, Corbin, but a fool!”
“Am I?” Corbin’s slow smile sent a shiver down her back in spite of her hot anger. “Come, Miss, there ain’t no use o’ you an’ me fussin’. I’ll stand yer friend, if ye’ll just give me a little snow”—he came nearer and brushed her shoulder with his hand—“just a little snow.”