He groaned unhappily.

"You're going to tell me everything--everything."

His fascinated, frightened eyes clung to this straight, slim girl whose
look stabbed into him and shook his soul. Why had she come to trouble
him this morning while he was cowering in fear of the men who would
break in to drag him away to prison?

"Nothing to tell," he got out with a gulp.

"Oh, yes, you have. Are you ill because of what happened at Maddock's?"

He tried to pull himself together, to stop the chattering of his teeth.

"N-nonsense, my dear. I'm done up completely. Delighted to see you
and all that, but--Won't you go home?" His appealing eyes passed to
Whitford. "Can't you take her away?"

"No, I won't go home--and he can't take me away." Her resolution was
hard as steel. It seemed to crowd inexorably upon the shivering wretch
in the frogged gown. "What is it you're so afraid to tell me,
Clarendon?"

He quailed at her thrust. "What--what do you mean?"

She knew now, beyond any question or doubt, that he had been present
when "Slim" Jim Collins had been killed. He had seen a man's life
snuffed out, was still trembling for fear he might be called in as a
party to the crime.