“You know his name?” she said, in response to my question.
“I do. But there are many circumstances connected with him which are puzzling,” I said. “Among them is the reason of his concealment in the house of the farmer Hayes.”
“Because he feared the police, I suppose. A watch was being kept on the house in Britten Street, you say.”
“For what reason? What was the offence of the pair?”
“They were suspected—suspected of a crime,” she replied. “But,” she added, “their guilt or their innocence does not concern me. I alone am to be the victim,” she added bitterly, pushing her hair from her brow as if its weight oppressed her.
“Then this man Logan is your enemy—eh?”
“He is not my friend.”
“He is in league with the others to encompass your ruin? Tell me the truth of this, at least.”
“I have not yet exactly decided whether he is my enemy or my friend,” was her answer. “Once he rendered me a very great service—how great I can never sufficiently acknowledge.”
“And now?” I asked, remembering that secret sign in the window.