"Come on." Ann held the revolver before her. "We’ve got to make a break for freedom. This ain’t no place for a pure young woman. You’ve got what the highfaluting society gang at Darley would call a chaperon, but she isn’t exactly of the first water, according to the way such things are usually graded. Seems like she’s able to teach you tricks to-night." Virginia caught Ann’s arm. "You are not going to shoot—" she began, nervously. "Not unless I _have_ to," Ann said. "But only hell knows what two drunken men and a cold, calculating devil of that brand will do in a pinch. I’ll see you down them steps, and out into God’s moonlight, if I have to drag you over enough corpses to make a corduroy road. I know how to shoot. I killed a squirrel once in a high tree with a pistol. Come on; they happen to be quiet right now." Ann opened the door and led the quaking girl across the upper corridor to the stairs, and they began to grope down the steps, Ann’s revolver harshly scratching as it slid along the railing. The voices in the drawing-room, as they neared the door, grew more boisterous. There was a spasmodic and abortive effort at song on the part of Masters, a dash of a deck of playing-cards on the floor, angry swearing, and the calm remonstrance of the master of the house. Down the steps the two women went till the drawing-room door was passed. Then the veranda was gained, and the wide lawn and gravelled walks stretched out invitingly in the moonlight. "Thank God," Ann muttered, as if to herself. "Now come on, let’s hustle out into the shelter of the woods." Speeding down the walk, hand-in-hand, they passed through the gate and reached the road. "Slick as goose-grease," Ann chuckled. "Now we are plumb safe—as safe as we’d be anywhere in the world." Drawing Virginia into the shadow of the trees bordering the road, she continued, more deliberately: "I could take you through the woods and across my meadows and fields, but it’s a rough way at night, and it won’t be necessary. We can take the main road and dodge out of the way if we hear anybody coming." "I’m not afraid now," Virginia sighed. "I’m not thinking about that. I’m only worried about what you think—what you think, Mrs. Boyd." "Never you mind what _I_ think, child," Ann said, quietly. "God knows I never would blame you like other folks, for I know a thing or two about life. I’ve learned my lesson." Virginia laid her hand firmly on Ann’s strong one. "He promised me the money to have mother’s operation performed. Oh, I couldn’t let the chance escape, Mrs. Boyd—it meant so much to the poor woman. You have no idea what torture she is in. He wouldn’t give it to me unless—unless I went all the way to his house for it. I hardly knew why, but—yes, I _knew_—" "That’s right," Ann broke in, "it won’t do any good to tell a story about it. You knew what he wanted; any girl of your age with common-sense would know."