Kate Seton sighed. It seemed as though there were a great depth of motherly tenderness in her heart, and just now that tenderness was directed toward the man approaching them.
But the lighter-minded Helen was less easily stirred. She smiled amusedly in her sister’s direction. Then her bright eyes glanced swiftly down at the man.
“If all we hear is true, his end will be the penitentiary,” she declared with decision.
Kate glanced round quickly, and her eyes suddenly became quite hard.
“Penitentiary?” she questioned sharply.
Helen shrugged.
“Everybody says he’s the biggest whisky smuggler in the country, and—and his habits don’t make things look much—different. Say, Kate, O’Brien told me the other day that the police had him marked down. They were only waiting to get him—red-handed.”
The hardness abruptly died out of Kate’s eyes. A faint sigh, perhaps of relief, escaped her.
“They’ll never do that,” she declared firmly. “Everybody’s making a mistake about Charlie. I’m—sure. With all his failings Charlie’s no whisky-runner. He’s too gentle. He’s too—too honest to descend to such a traffic.”
Suddenly her eyes lit. She came close to Helen, and one firm hand grasped the soft flesh of the girl’s arm, and closed tightly upon it.