He was aware, and it gave him a twinge of pain to see it, that she sat up a little straighter, like one on guard; and oh, how tired her face was and how sweet! He told her of all his suspicions of her brother-in-law; of the blood-stains and the changing of clothes; she did not interrupt him by a question, hardly by a motion, until he told of the conversation with Keatcham and the note signed “The Black Hand.” At this her eyes lighted; she exclaimed impetuously: “Cary Mercer never did send that letter!” She drew a deep intake of breath. “I don’t believe he touched Mr. Keatcham!”
“Neither do I,” said the colonel, “but wait!” He went on to the theater girl’s report of the receiver of the telegrams. Her hands, which clasped her knee, fell apart; her lips parted and closed firmly.
“Did I think it was you?” said he. “Why, yes, I confess I did fear it might be and that you might be trying to shield Atkins.”
“I!” she exclaimed hotly; “that detestable villain!”
“Isn’t he?” cried the colonel. “But—well, I couldn’t tell how he might strike a lady,” he ended lamely.
“I reckon he would strike a lady if she were silly enough to marry him and he got tired of her. He is the kind of man who will persecute a girl to marry him, follow her around and importune her and flatter her and then, if he should prevail, never forgive her for the bother she has given him. Oh, I never did like him; I’m afraid of him—awfully.”
“Not you?”—the colonel’s voice was cheerful, as if he had not shivered over his own foreboding vision. “I’ve seen you in action already, you know.”
“Not fighting bombs. I hate bombs. There are so many pieces to hit you. You can’t run away.”
“Well, you’ll find them not so bad; besides, you did fight one this very morning, and you were cool as peppermint!”
“That was quite different; I had time to think, and the danger was more to me than to any one else; but to think of Mrs. Winter and Archie and y—all of you; that scares me.”