“He said we—we could get away—and—”
“Yes?”
“—and they were asleep and—and then we saw the house, and—oh, I can't think—”
“Bill,—for heaven's sake!” cried Dick. “Yes, it's all right, Estelle. You're all safe now. Try to think.”
“I guess I fainted—Pete was gone—and I—I don't know—how I got to the house—”
“That will do. Go to sleep, Estelle. We 'll take good care of you.” Beveridge rose, and looked significantly toward the closet door. “Now, Mister,” he said, addressing the farmer, “we 'll just take a look in that closet before we go, and—”
A protesting voice, muffled by hanging garments, but shrill nevertheless, came from the closet, and Beveridge smiled. “Is it your wife?” he asked. Van Deelen nodded. And then, the smile lingering, Beveridge led the way out of the room.
As they started down the stairs, Dick observed: “You were awful quiet down there with McGlory, Bill. I'd heard your second shot before I knew anything was happening.”
“You never heard my second shot.”
“I didn't? I'd like to know why I didn't.”