Howe appeared concerned. “You didn’t meet Childers?” “In full force,” admitted Allston. Then lightly and entertainingly he told the whole story. And yet not the whole story. As he talked, somehow Roxie did not stand out as prominently in his narrative as actually she did in the picture the episode had left in his own mind. Rather deliberately he was slightly reticent about some details--insignificant enough in themselves--which had registered with unusual vividness in his own mind. He did this partly as a matter of personal taste and partly out of respectful deference to Roxie herself. He considered certain moments in the nature of private and confidential communications: for example, those few seconds after Bud’s departure when Roxie, in gratitude, had stood there so silently in the moonlight, her face uplifted to his. He was sure she had been moved by nothing but girlish gratitude and had no conception of the astonishingly dramatic picture she made. Yet he never mentioned the incident. His conclusion from this point on was matter-of-fact enough. “So I took her to the house and then came home--striking into the woods instead of keeping to the road.” “You were wise in that,” said Howe. “The trouble was I discovered my gun was empty,” laughed Allston. “The last time I used it I popped away at some squirrels on the road. I’d already wasted the one shell I had on Bud and I was afraid a second bluff might not work.” “Good Lord!” gasped Howe. “Bluff _is_ a dangerous game to play against that kind of man. You don’t realize how recklessly they kill. They never reckon consequences.” “Well,” said Allston, willing enough to forget the whole affair, “here I am back again, at any rate. I’m sorry if I’ve kept you up.” Wilmer rose. “You must be tired after your long tramp. You’ll let me make you a cup of coffee?” “Please don’t trouble,” he pleaded. No one had noticed the slight, tired-looking figure who had suddenly appeared at the door leading from the kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed after the stumbling journey she had taken at a run as long as her breath held out. Her hair was awry and her face stained where she had wiped away the perspiration with an earth-soiled hand. Below her eyes were other streaks--channels made by tears forced from her, not by maudlin grief, but sheer elemental anger because her feet would not carry her faster; the helpless rage of one baffled in an overwhelming effort. “Roxie!” exclaimed Wilmer as she caught sight of the girl. “Please, I’ll git him his coffee,” she panted. CHAPTER VII