This was what McGlory had said to Van Deelen after he had got her to the door: “Give me some paper and a pen—quick!”
They were promptly placed on the diningroom table; and he scrawled off a few lines, folded the paper, and looked up with a scowl. The strain of the week had not improved his expression. “Give me an envelope; I want you to mail this for me.”
“I haven't got one.”
“The———you haven't!”
“Honest—that's the truth. I'd have to go to Hewittson, anyway. It 'll be quicker for you to take—”
“Oh, shut up. I'm sick o' your voice. Here, take this.” He thrust the letter into his pocket and counted out twenty-five dollars in bills. “This is for you. And mind, nothing said. You don't know us—never seen four men coming through here in the night. Don't remember ever having seen four men come through. Understand?”
Van Deelen drew back a step, and nodded. “No mistake about this now. If you say a word, the world ain't big enough to hide you.” His hand was straying toward a significant pocket. “None of your hemmings and haw-ings—if you're in a hurry to get to heaven, just give us away. Understand?”
Another nod,—all the farmer was capable of; and McGlory was gone with a bound, out the door, on toward the little group at the farther side of the clearing.
They heard his step and his loud breathing. “What's this?” He had just made out Roche's arm across Estelle's back. “What's this?” He tore the arm away, whirled Roche around, and slapped his face so hard that he——
“By———!” gasped Roche. “By———!”