She seized my hand and held it as she spoke, and looked intently, almost lovingly, on my face. Elsewhere I could have shivered at the thought of her touch. Here, with the bent figure amid the gloomy shadows of the den in which we sat, with the atmosphere of danger heavy about us, I was moved by a glow of kindly feeling. “I was a-listening to 'em,” she continued in a low, earnest tone, glancing around fearfully as if she had the thought that some one else might be listening in turn. “I was a-listening, an' I heerd what they says.” “Who said?” I inquired. “The ones you knows on,” she returned mysteriously. “What ones?” I persisted, though I supposed she meant to indicate some of my energetic enemies. Mother Borton paid no attention to my question, and continued: “I knowed they was a-talking about you, an' they says they would cut your liver out if they found ye there.” “And where is there?” I asked with growing interest. “That's what I was listening to find out,” said Mother Borton. “I couldn't hear much of what they says, but I hears enough to git an idee.” “Well?” I said inquiringly as she hesitated. She bent forward and hissed rather than whispered: “They've found out where the boy is!” “Are you certain?” I asked in sudden alarm. “Pretty sure,” she said, “pretty sure. Now you won't go near the place, will ye, dearie?” she continued anxiously. “You forget that I haven't the first idea where the boy is hidden,” I returned. “Oh, Lord, yes! I reckon my mind's going,” grunted Mother Borton. “But I'm afeard of their knives for ye.” “I wish I could give warning,” said I, much disturbed by the information. “The protector of the boy ought to know about this. I'm afraid I have done wrong.” Mother Borton looked at me fixedly. “Don't you worry, my dear. She'll know about it all right.” Again the feeling stole over me that this woman knew more than she told. But I knew that it was useless to question her directly. I considered a moment, and then decided to trust her with a secret which might surprise her into admitting her knowledge. “I suspect that she knows already. I got a note to-night,” said I, drawing from my pocket the envelope I had received from the Unknown. Mother Borton seized it, looked for a moment at the firm, delicate hand of the address, and drew out the sheet that it inclosed. “Read it, dearie,” she said, handing it back after a scrutiny. “I can't tell anything but big print.” I suspected that Mother Borton was trying to deceive me, but I repeated the words of the note: “Send six men to 8 o'clock boat. Come with one in hack to courtyard of the Palace Hotel at 7:40.” Mother Borton's face changed not a whit at the reading, but at the end she nodded. “She knows,” she said. “What does it mean?” I asked. “What is to happen?” “Don't go, dearie--you won't go, will you?” “Yes,” I said. “I must go.” “Oh,” she wailed; “you may be killed. You may never come back.”