“I’ll watch him, but I can’t spend the rest of the evening on his legs. It’s late and--we’ve a long way to go.” She brought an old leather halter-strap. This served well enough, though Allston could not fasten it as tight as he wished. However, it made it safe to leave the man and he was beginning to feel the cold. First, however, he took the precaution to remove Bud’s gun--a villainous-looking Colt big enough to bore a hole the size of a walnut. “Better stay quiet,” warned Allston. “If I hear you moving I’ll find more rope. Get that?” Bud’s level eyes, hard as dagger blades, met those of steel blue before him. He deigned no reply. His face was as immobile as though cut from granite. Allston picked up the lamp and led the way into the next room. He tossed a log on the open fire and removed his wet coat, Roxie watching him in silence and awe. He warmed his numb hands over the blaze, surveying the room in detail as he did so. It was cleaner than he had expected and more attractive. With the cold wind rattling the windows, hopelessly, and the rougher features of the surroundings subdued by shadows, with the warmth of the wood flames tingling pleasantly on his skin, he reacted quickly from the ugly incidents of the last few minutes. What, a short time ago, had seemed so grave a problem was now no problem at all. The moment he felt Roxie to be safe and sound, as obviously she was with Bud eliminated, he was rather inclined to accept the whole situation with easy good humor. He turned to Roxie with a smile. She was standing back against the wall--as far back as she could get. She was wearing no hat and her hair had become loosened, a detached strand hanging over one temple and another over her forehead. With a quick movement and in some embarrassment as she saw him looking at her, she swept these back into place. To Allston she was just a child again. He sank into a chair with his wet, muddy boots thrust towards the flames. “Roxie,” he said, “you certainly arranged a real hike for me to-night.” She was silent a moment and then she broke out: “What fer--did you come?” “To take you home,” he answered easily. “Who asked ye?” she demanded. “_You_ did.” “You lie!” She spoke without thinking. The phrase sounded harsher than she intended. She meant only to deny. Allston turned in his chair to face her. “Come over here by the fire.” “I don’ wanter.” He rose. “Then I’ll have to come to you, but I wanted to dry my feet.” At that she ran to his side. “Please,” she begged, “yer boots is all muddy an’ wet.” As he sat down again willingly enough, for his legs really were heavy and his feet bruised, she knelt by his chair, and before he realized what she was doing began to unlace his shoes. As she did so her voice fell into a low crooning. “Po’ feet,” she murmured. “They’s all wet an’ hurt--they’s all wet an’ hurt. Oh, I didn’ know you’d come. I didn’ know. It’s all my fault.”