“I—” He smiled. “I am Newton Mills.” Then he was gone.
What a commotion that declaration would have caused among the watchers in the little gray house on the prairies! Newton Mills, Joyce Mills’ father, boon companion of Drew Lane, Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson—Newton Mills come to life and he, of all men, the Whisperer! But no word of this could reach them now.
* * * * * * * *
It was cold over there by the north window of the little gray house. Before he and Alice established themselves there, Johnny gathered up his heavy coat and wrapped it about the girl. He was very close to her now, this brave and beautiful child of a slain policeman. They were facing death together, these two. And death drew them closer.
Bleak night was outside, and out there somewhere in hiding, creeping up behind that barn or the grove where the Captain had played as a boy, or perhaps behind the great cottonwood just before them, death was coming nearer. Johnny was seized with an involuntary shudder.
“What is it, my friend Johnny?” The little Canadian’s shoulder touched his.
“Nothing. Only thinking.” He laughed a low, uncertain laugh.
“Do you know,” he said a moment later in a voice that was all but a whisper, “that old barn behind the cottonwood was standing when the Captain was a boy? On rainy days they played in the hay, climbed high and pushed one another down, made swings of the hay ropes and leaped into the mow from twenty feet in air. They played hide and seek, boys and girls together. Sounds sort of peaceful and joyous, doesn’t it? Not—not like this.”
“You make it seem so real. Perhaps, after all, this is only a dream. Or, or only a trick to frighten us. Christmas morning will come as it came in those good days. Stockings all in a row.” Her voice was dreamy. “Presents, and a fire laughing up the chimney. All that and—
“Johnny!” She broke off suddenly to grip his arm. “What was that? A shot?”