They walked on in silence until presently the girl stopped before the gate of a small, weather-beaten cottage.
"Well, here we are at Elisha's," she remarked, turning in at the gate.
"What's he got to do with it?"
"Mercy, Hortie. You'll wear me to a shred. Elisha is the sheriff. I'm going to coax him to let us see the prisoner."
"You don't mean the chap is jailed here! My—!" he clapped his hand over his mouth. "Why, any red-blooded man could knock the whole house flat to the ground with a single blow of his fist. I'll bet I could."
"There wasn't any other place to put him."
"Well, if he stays incarcerated in a detention pen like this, he's a noble-minded convict—that's all I have to say."
They walked up the narrow clam-shell path, bordered by iris and thrifty perennials.
As they did so, the sound of a radio drifted through the open window.