"I won't! What do I care for your old gun? You shan't shoot Russ or do anything else to him. It's my fault he's here in my room. I coaxed him to come."
"You little hussy!" exclaimed Sampson, and he lowered the gun.
If I ever before had occasion to glory in Sally I had it then. She betrayed not the slightest fear. She looked as if she could fight like a little tigress. She was white, composed, defiant.
"How long has Russ been in here?" demanded Sampson.
"All evening. I left Diane at eight o'clock. Russ came right after that."
"But you'd undressed for bed!" ejaculated the angry and perplexed uncle.
"Yes." That simple answer was so noncommittal, so above subterfuge, so innocent, and yet so confounding in its provocation of thought that Sampson just stared his astonishment. But I started as if I had been struck.
"See here Sampson—" I began, passionately.
Like a flash Sally whirled into my arms and one hand crossed my lips. "It's my fault. I will take the blame," she cried, and now the agony of fear in her voice quieted me. I realized I would be wise to be silent. "Uncle," began Sally, turning her head, yet still clinging to me, "I've tormented Russ into loving me. I've flirted with him—teased him—tempted him. We love each other now. We're engaged. Please—please don't—" She began to falter and I felt her weight sag a little against me.
"Well, let go of him," said Sampson. "I won't hurt him. Sally, how long has this affair been going on?"