Her fingers were fumbling at the strings--her bent head by his knee. He placed his hand upon her silky flaxen hair. “Roxie,” he protested, “don’t do that.” “Yer’ll ketch yo’ death o’ cold. An’ it’ll be all my fault.” “Get up, child.” “They’re mos’ done now.” It was true enough. She had them off before he could object further and had placed them on the hearth. “You’d spoil any man, Roxie,” he smiled. “I never done thet fer no man afore,” she answered. “And you shouldn’t again.” “I’d do it fer you ag’in.” “I shan’t ever let you.” “Then what fer did ye come?” she cried. “To fetch you home.” “Back to Miss Wilmer’s?” “Certainly.” He was a bit puzzled by her questioning. He did not know where it was leading, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that it was leading somewhere it should not. “I ain’t a-goin’ back to Miss Wilmer’s,” she answered with tightened lips. “Of course you are,” he insisted with a trace of irritation. “Who’s a-goin’ to make me?” she challenged. “Make you? No one. You’re going because it’s the place for you to go; because you want to go.” “I don’t.” “Look here, Roxie--” “I don’t,” she repeated, with a sharp stamp of her foot. “An’ ef you wanter go an’ hold her hand some more you kin go.” The last part of her speech was a wild, unconstrained outburst. A moment ago she would have choked herself before she would have allowed it to escape her lips. Even now she stood back aghast, though still aggressive. “Good Lord!” exclaimed Allston, his eyes held to her by the intensity of her passion. As he started to rise she sank down in a heap, her legs weak beneath her. Leaning forward she buried her face in her hands. Allston retained his seat. He did not dare move; did not dare touch her. He was confused and uncertain. “Who’s been talking to you, Roxie?” he frowned. “Bud--he seen,” she choked. “Saw what?” “Seen you a-holdin’ of Miss Wilmer’s hand down to the cove.” Suddenly she lifted her wet face to his. “Unless he lied,” she trembled. “Mebbe he lied. I tol’ him he lied.” Allston caught his breath. Bud must have been in the bushes. With a chance like that, why hadn’t the fellow shot? “Mebbe he lied,” she said again, her face eager with new hope. “But if he didn’t?” “I won’t never go down ter Miss Wilmer’s ag’in,” she choked. CHAPTER XVII In the dark hall, bound hand and foot, Bud Childers lay flat on his back staring into Hell. In the old days of the Spanish Inquisition devilish minds spent days of thought in devising new tortures by which to bring with a nice appreciation of every fine point fresh torments to individual cases. The infliction of pain was a profession. But even these fanatical experts could have contrived nothing better adapted to the especial requirements of Childers than this which Allston--wholly without that object in mind--had hit upon.