“Careful!” she whispered. “If he should wake up....” She extricated herself from an encircling arm. “Jim—sit still now!—It's time you and I had an understanding. I need you, and I'm going to use you. I don't propose to have you all steamed up, either. You'll need all the nerve you've got. Perhaps more. I'm not at all sure that you're big enough for what you've got to do. That's the difficulty.”
“You promised, Dixie.” He was still absurdly breathless. “You said it was a trade—if I'd stick to you, you'd stick to me!”
“Certainly. But it's during the next eight or ten hours that you're going to find out what sticking to me, means. You can have me, all right, Jim, but you've got to earn me.”
“I guess I'll earn you, all right.”
“I wonder if you have the courage.”
“By God, for you, Dixie—”
Her hand fell lightly on his; and her voice, very small and calm, broke in with: “Supposing I told you to kill a man. Would you do it?”
She heard, felt, his breath stop. Then he whispered, with one swift glance at the sleeping Connor: “If I say yes, Dixie, will you kiss me? Right now?”
She pressed her lips slightly; then replied: “No. Not yet. And you needn't kill anybody until I tell you to.”
“Is it—is it”—his whisper was huskier—“is it—him, Dixie?” He was staring with less certainty now, at Connor.