She put her hand in mine, her eyes on my face.

"No; it is not my nerves. See, my hand does not tremble; I am not
afraid physically. I 've simply come to myself; I 'm convinced we 're
doing wrong."

"But you will wait until morning? until I have talked with Coombs?" I
asked anxiously.

"Yes," after an instant's hesitation. "There is nothing else I can do."

The Texan got noisily to his feet, and swaggered across the floor.

"If you all hav' got through yer whisperin'," he said roughly, "I
reckon Sally 's got ther grub laid out."

I bit my lips to keep back a hot reply, feeling the restraint of her
eyes, and we followed him into the next room. The table was set for
two, and I could distinguish the shadow of a woman standing motionless
in the farther corner. The dim light barely revealed her outlines.

"Yer kin talk it out yere," announced Coombs, waving one hand, "cause I
won't be present, havin' et already. I reckon Sally won't interfere
none."

He slammed the door viciously going out, causing the lamp to sputter.
Then the woman came silently forward, a coffeepot in her hand. She was
a mulatto perhaps sixty years of age, her face scarred by smallpox, and
with strangely furtive eyes. Somehow she fitted into the scene, and I