She sank down beside him, overcome, as Nash fancied, by the horror of it all. He began to fear that she would have no strength left with which to run.
“What—time is it?” she begged. Yet before he could take out his watch her hand crept into his pocket, removing it.
“It’s a quarter to eight,” she announced. She held the watch in her hands, forgetting to return it.
Nash pleaded with her once more. “You must get away! You must! If the worst should happen—yours would be a useless sacrifice. You can do me no good by remaining. Your own life is——”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” she choked, interrupting him. “I—I am not worthy.”
He stared into her partly hidden face. “Miss Breen,” he commanded firmly, “every minute is precious. Pull yourself together. You must be brave.”
“Yes,” she repeated, “I must be brave.” Never had her voice sounded so strangely. “I’ve been—been a coward all these months. Now—now I’m going to be brave. I’m going to tell you the truth. You’ve sacrificed everything for me. I—I should have known before.” She caught at her breath, and forced back a sob. “Mr. Nash, I—I have been living a lie. I am not merely an Eastern girl out here for my health, as you suspected—as I led you to believe. I—I am a spotter employed by the city of Los Angeles.”
The declaration came like a blow in the face to Nash. For the moment he forgot his pain—forgot the situation—forgot that in a few minutes the whole mountaintop would be a living volcano.
“You—a spotter?” he asked, scarcely believing his ears. And then, feeling a throb of pity for the girl, he changed. “Well, what does it matter? There has been no harm done.”
“But there has been harm done,” she stammered, looking at him with bewildered, misted eyes. “There has been harm done! I—I have informed the authorities at Los Angeles, and—and you are to be arrested before the week is out.”