“You're right,” she said. “I'm an old fool, and you've got the real sand. You're the first one except Henry Wilton that's trusted me in forty years, and you won't be sorry for it, my boy. You owe me one, now. Where would you have been to-night if I hadn't had the light doused on ye?” “Oh, that was your doing, was it? I thought my time had come.” “Oh, I was sure you'd know what to do. It was your best chance.” “Then will you help me, now?” The old crone considered, and her face grew sharp and cunning in its look. “What can I do?” “Tell me, in God's name, where I stand. What is this dreadful mystery? Who is this boy? Why is he hidden, and why do these people want to know where he is? Who is behind me, and who threatens me with death?” I burst out with these questions passionately, almost frantically. This was the first time I had had chance to demand them of another human being. Mother Borton gave me a leer. “I wish I could tell you, my dear, but I don't know.” “You mean you dare not tell me,” I said boldly. “You have done me a great service, but if I am to save myself from the dangers that surround me I must know more. Can't you see that?” “Yes,” she nodded. “You're in a hard row of stumps, young man.” “And you can help me.” “Well, I will,” she said, suddenly softening again. “I took a shine to you when you came in, an' I says to myself, 'I'll save that young fellow,' an' I done it. And I'll do more. Mr. Wilton was a fine gentleman, an' I'd do something, if I could, to git even with those murderin' gutter-pickers that laid him out on a slab.” She hesitated, and looked around at the shadows thrown by the flickering candle. “Well?” I said impatiently. “Who is the boy, and where is he?” “Never you mind that, young fellow. Let me tell you what I know. Then maybe we'll have time to go into the things I don't know.” It was of no use to urge her. I bowed my assent to her terms. “I'll name no names,” she said. “My throat can be cut as quick as yours, and maybe a damned sight quicker.” Mother Borton had among her failings a weakness for profanity. I have omitted most of her references to sacred and other subjects of the kind in transcribing her remarks. “The ones that has the boy means all right. They're rich. The ones as is looking for the boy is all wrong. They'll be rich if they gits him.” “How?” “Why, I don't know,” said Mother Borton. “I'm tellin' you what Henry Wilton told me.” This was maddening. I began to suspect that she knew nothing after all. “Do you know where he is?” I asked, taking the questioning into my own hands. “No,”--sullenly. “Who is protecting him?” “I don't know.” “Who is trying to get him?” “It's that snake-eyed Tom Terrill that's leading the hunt, along with Darby Meeker; but they ain't doing it for themselves.” “Is Doddridge Knapp behind them?” The old woman looked at me suddenly in wild-eyed alarm. “S-s-h!” she whispered. “Don't name no names.” “But I saw--” She put her hand over my mouth.