The smile with which Dick watched the agonized girl marked the cruelty that was the underlying trait of his whole character. He knew she suffered. He knew how she suffered now. And he exulted in it.
But he was, too, fearful for his own safety. The crime he had committed miles away across the sheep range, and which had set the sheriff on his track, was a most despicable one. It was, too, in this community a crime that might easily excite the passions of the rougher element. Men had been lynched for much less than Dick Beckworth’s crime!
With night coming on, the waters about the town rising, and no means for quick egress before morning at least, Dick the Devil realized that his only hope lay with this tortured girl. Aside from the satisfaction it gave him to make her shield him, he was quite aware that no better place than Betty Hunt’s room could be imagined in which he might hide from the officers.
“There’s a closet,” he said finally, seeing the small door in the partition. “Put me in that. You can let your brother in if you like—or Joe Hurley.” He sneered at her. “They’ll never believe the proper Betty Hunt has a man hidden in her room. What’s that?”
He hissed the question, grabbing the handle of the closet door, and looked back at the one opening from the hall. There was a light step outside; the door-knob rattled.
“Quick!” breathed Dick. “Don’t say a word——”
He tried to open the closet door. Although it was a spring latch, it was likewise locked. All Betty’s little valuables were in the closet, and she had the key.
“The key!” shrilled the man. “You fool! Do you want me to give the thing away? As sure as you are alive I’ll tell them you’re my wife. Quick!”
Betty did not move. She shook her head. The door-knob was again rattled. A muffled voice cried:
“Betty!”