She struggled free and leaped away from him, panting, while he tore open his coat and drew forth something which gleamed in the lantern's rays—a silver locket. Cynthia scarcely saw it. Her blood was throbbing in her temples, she could not reason, but she knew that the appeal for the sake of which she had stooped must be delivered now.
"Jethro," she said, "do you know why I came here—why I came to you?"
"No," he said. "No. W—wanted me, didn't you? Wanted me—I wanted you,
Cynthy."
"I would never have come to you for that," she cried, "never!"
"L-love me, Cynthy—love me, don't you?"
How could he ask, seeing that she had been in his arms, and had not fled?
And yet she must go through with what she had come to do, at any cost.
"Jethro, I have come to speak to you about the town meeting tomorrow."
He halted as though he had been struck, his hand tightening over the locket.
"T-town meetin'?"
"Yes. All this new organization is your doing," she cried. "Do you think that I am foolish enough to believe that Fletcher Bartlett or Sam Price planned this thing? No, Jethro. I know who has done it, and I could have told them if they had asked me."