“A spy?” he repeated. “Is that what you are? And you suppose me to be one, too? That’s funny. That’s extremely––” He checked himself, looked around at her. “What are you about?” he demanded. “What’s that in your hand?”
“A cigarette.”
They had arrived at the road. He got over the wall with the box; she vaulted it lightly.
In the darkness he caught the low, steady throbbing of his engine, and presently distinguished the car standing where he had left it.
“Get in,” he said briefly.
“I am not a thief! Are you going to lay that charge against me?”
“I don’t know. Is it worse than charging you with three separate attempts to murder me?”
“Are you going to take me to jail?”
“I’ll see. You’ll go as far as Orangeville with me, anyhow.”
“I don’t care to go.”