Hough bent low to peer into Allie’s face—to see her ring. Then he turned to Ancliffe.
“How things work out!... I always suspected what was wrong with Neale. Now I know—after seeing his girl.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Ancliffe.
“Well, I’ll block Durade’s gang. Will you save the girl?”
“Assuredly,” answered the imperturbable Englishman. “Where shall I take her?”
“Where CAN she be safe? The troop camp? No, too far,... Aha! take her to Stanton. Tell Stanton the truth. Stanton will hide her. Then find Neale and King.”
Hough turned to Allie. “I’m glad you spoke—about Neale,” he said, and there was a curious softness in his voice. “I owe him a great deal. I like him... Ancliffe will get you out of here—and safely back to Neale.”
Allie knew somehow—from something in his tone, his presence—that he would never leave this gloomy inclosure. She heard Ancliffe ripping a board off the wall or fence, and that sound seemed alarmingly loud. The voices no longer were heard behind the canvas house. The wind whipped through the bare framework. Somewhere at a distance were music and revelry. Benton’s night roar had begun. Over all seemed to hang a menacing and ponderous darkness.
Suddenly a light appeared moving slowly from the most obscure corner of the space, perhaps fifty paces distant.
Hough drew Allie closer to Ancliffe. “Get behind me,” he whispered.