Larry Silcott put his finger to his lips, came in, and closed the window carefully.
“What do you want?” demanded the girl, eyes flashing.
The man looked haggard and miserable. All his gay effrontery had been wiped out.
“I want to see you—to talk with you,” he pleaded.
“What about?” Her manner was curt and uncompromising.
“I want to explain. I want to tell you how it was.”
“Is that necessary?” asked Ruth, her scornful eyes full on him.
“Yes. I don’t want you to blame me. You know how—how fond I am of you.”
She threw out a contemptuous little gesture. “Please spare me that.”
“Don’t be hard on me, Ruth. Listen. They had the goods on us. We were going to hang—every one of us. They kept at me day and night. They pestered me—woke me out of my sleep to argue and explain. If it hadn’t been me it would have been one of the others that gave evidence for the State.”