Her eyes changed from blank gulfs to dilating, shadowing, quickening windows of thought.
Then she stood up and faced Duane with the fire and intelligence of a woman in her eyes.
“Tell me now. You were spying on my father?”
Briefly Duane told her what had happened before he entered her room, not omitting a terse word as to the character of the men he had watched.
“My God! So it's that? I knew something was terribly wrong here—with him—with the place—the people. And right off I hated Floyd Lawson. Oh, it'll kill me if—if—It's so much worse than I dreamed. What shall I do?”
The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted Duane's attention, reminded him of her peril, and now, what counted more with him, made clear the probability of being discovered in her room.
“I'll have to get out of here,” whispered Duane.
“Wait,” she replied. “Didn't you say they were hunting for you?”
“They sure are,” he returned, grimly.
“Oh, then you mustn't go. They might shoot you before you got away. Stay. If we hear them you can hide. I'll turn out the light. I'll meet them at the door. You can trust me. Wait till all quiets down, if we have to wait till morning. Then you can slip out.”