“Say, child,” she went on, in a deep, thrilling tone, “do you know what these whisky-runners risk? Do you? No. Of course you don’t. They risk life as well as liberty. They’re threatened every moment of their lives. The penalty is heavy, and when a man becomes a whisky-runner he has no intention of being taken—alive. Think of all that, and see where your imagination carries you. Then think of Charlie—as we know him. An artist. A warm-hearted, gentle creature, whose only sins are—against himself.”
But the younger girl’s face displayed skepticism.
“Yes—as we know him,” she replied quickly. “I’ve thought of it while he’s been giving me lessons in painting, when I’ve watched him with you, with that wonderful look of dog-like devotion in his eyes, while hanging on every word you uttered. I’ve thought of it all. And always running through my mind was the title of a book I once read—‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.’ You are sure, and I—I only wonder.”
Kate’s hand relaxed its hold upon her sister’s arm. Her whole expression changed with a suddenness which, had she observed it, must have startled the other. Her eyes were cold, very cold, as she surveyed the sister to whom she was so devoted, and who could find it in her heart to think so harshly of one whom she regarded as a sick and ailing creature, needing the utmost support from natures morally stronger than his own.
“You must think as you will, Helen,” she said coldly. “I know. I know Charlie. I understand the gentle heart that guides his every action, and I warn you you are wrong—utterly wrong. Everybody is wrong, the police—everybody.”
She turned away and moved a few steps down the slope toward the approaching figure.