“And she was a saloon keeper's wife?”
“Yes,—but it wasn't so bad as it sounds when you say it that way. She was too good for McGlory.”
“Oh, you—you know her?”
“I've seen her, yes.”
“But isn't she—old?”
“Not so very. She can't be much older than Beveridge. She is good looking—almost pretty. And she looks sort of—well, when you saw her there in McGlory's place, it seemed too bad. She was quiet, and she looked as if she was made for something better.”
They were silent for a time. Then their eyes met, and she missed his answering smile. “What is it, Dick?” she asked.
“I was thinking about Henry—about what he was, and then what he did for me. We have everything to thank him for, you and I, Annie.” He paused, then went on. “I suppose he was wrong—he must have been wrong if we are to believe in law at all. But that night on the steamer, when he was telling us about it, I watched him and Beveridge both pretty closely,—the expression of their faces and their eyes. The way a man looks at you tells so much, Annie. And I knew all the while, though Beveridge was standing there for the law, and Henry for what they call crime, still—”
“What, Dick?”
“—if I were in a tight place again and had to choose which of those two men to trust my life with, I shouldn't need to stop to think. It would be Henry, every time.”