The expression of Flora O’Dell’s eyes changed, but she did not speak.
“Then he’s in jail by this time,” said Lunt.
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. O’Dell, turning her darkling glance from Hood to Lunt. “He went to town for Doctor Scott. Why should he go to jail? And why have you put handcuffs on Noel Sabattis?”
“It be for us to ask questions an’ for ye to answer ’em,” cried old Hood in his worst manner. “Ye got a sick man here in the house, ain’t ye? Come now, speak up sharp. Ain’t no use yer lyin’ to us.”
“Yes, he is very sick,” Mrs. O’Dell replied, her voice low and shaken. “He is dangerously ill. My brother has gone to get a doctor for him.”
“He kin be doctored in jail,” said Hood.
“That’s right, ma’am,” said Lunt. “The doctor can ’tend him in jail. We gotter take him now. Where is he?”
“It would kill him to move him to-night!”
“Well, what of it? He’ll likely be hung anyhow,” retorted the bitter old ferryman.
“That is not true and you know it!” cried Mrs. O’Dell. “You are persecuting him in wicked spite. You are a spiteful, hateful old man! And you, Melchar Lunt—you must be crazy to enter this house, armed, and threaten me and my guests!”