Miss Longstreth sat with one hand holding her torn waist in place; the other she extended to Duane. He took it awkwardly, and he felt a strange thrill.
“You saved my life,” she said, in grave, sweet seriousness.
“No, no!” Duane exclaimed. “He might have struck you, hurt you, but no more.”
“I saw murder in his eyes. He thought I had jewels under my dress. I couldn't bear his touch. The beast! I'd have fought. Surely my life was in peril.”
“Did you kill him?” asked Miss Ruth, who lay listening.
“Oh no. He's not badly hurt.”
“I'm very glad he's alive,” said Miss Longstreth, shuddering.
“My intention was bad enough,” Duane went on. “It was a ticklish place for me. You see, he was half drunk, and I was afraid his gun might go off. Fool careless he was!”
“Yet you say you didn't save me,” Miss Longstreth returned, quickly.
“Well, let it go at that,” Duane responded. “I saved you something.”