Sylvia stifled her laughter. The whole thing was ironic.
Why, that very morning had not Elisha Winslow, the Wilton sheriff, who had frankly admitted he yearned for excitement, helped undress the wretch and put him comfortably to bed? The humor of the situation almost overcame her.
It seemed as if she must have someone to share the joke. But no one should. No! Nobody should be the wiser because of her. The poor, hunted fellow should have his chance. He was an under-dog and she had always been romantically sorry for under-dogs.
It was a little venturesome and risky, she admitted, to obstruct justice and should she be found out she would, without doubt, be clapped into jail. Still she resolved to take a chance.
After all, who could prove she had known Stanley Heath to be what he was? Nobody. She would not even let him suspect it.
The important thing was to await an opportunity and soon—before he was able to be about—return the handkerchief she held in her hand to its place beneath the brick. Then all would be well. This should not be difficult. It would be quite easy to get Marcia to take up Mr. Heath's supper.
In the meantime, the situation was intensely amusing. Its danger appealed to her. She had always enjoyed hair-breadth escapades. Anything but dullness. That had been the trouble with Alton City—it had been dull—deadly dull.
But Wilton was not dull. In spite of the fact that only this morning Elisha Winslow had complained the town was in need of a stirring up, it seethed with electricity. If she chose, she could hurl a bomb-shell into its midst this very minute. But she did not choose.
Instead she intended to play her own quiet game and keep what she knew to herself. She wondered why. Perhaps she was falling in love with this adventurer. Yes, that must be it. She was in love with him—in love with a bandit!
How scandalized Alton City would be! How the whole town would hold up its hands in horror if it knew!