“I may not get a chance to talk with you alone again this evening,” she continued, dropping her half-bantering tone, “and you come so little now. What are you doing?” “Keeping out of mischief.” “Yes, but how?” she persisted. “You used to tell me everything. Now you tell me nothing.” “Mr. Knapp's work--” I began. “Oh, of course I don't expect you to tell me about that. I know Mr. Knapp, and you're as close-mouthed as he, even when he's away.” “I should tell you anything of my own, but, of course, another's--” “I understand.” Mrs. Knapp, sitting with hands clasped in her lap, gave me a quick look. “But there was something else. You were telling me about your adventures, you remember. You told me two or three weeks ago about the way you tricked Darby Meeker and sent him to Sierra City.” And she smiled at the recollection of Darby Meeker's discomfiture. “Oh, yes,” I said, with a laugh that sounded distressingly hollow to my ears. “That was a capital joke on Meeker.” Here was a fine pack of predicaments loosed on my trail. It was with an effort that I kept my countenance, and the cold sweat started on my forehead. How much had Henry told of his business? Had he touched on it lightly, humorously, or had he given a full account of his adventures to the wife of the man with whose secrets he was concerned, and whose evil plans had brought him to his death? The questions flashed through my mind in the instant that followed Mrs. Knapp's speech. “How did it turn out?” asked Mrs. Knapp with lively interest. “Did he get back?” I decided promptly on a judicious amount of the truth. “Yes, he got back, boiling with wrath, and loaded to the guards with threats--that is, I heard so from my men. I didn't see him myself, or you might have found the rest of it in the newspaper.” “What did he do? Tell me about it.” Mrs. Knapp gave every evidence of absorbed interest. “Well, he laid a trap for me at Borton's, put Terrill in as advance guard, and raised blue murder about the place.” And then I went on to give a carefully amended account of my first night's row at Borton's, and with an occasional question, Mrs. Knapp had soon extorted from me a fairly full account of my doings. “It is dreadful for you to expose yourself to such dangers.” I was privately of her opinion. “Oh, that's nothing,” said I airily. “A man may be killed any day by a brick falling from a building, or by slipping on an orange peel on the crossing.” “But it is dreadful to court death so. Yet,” she mused, “if I were a man I could envy you your work. There is romance and life in it, as well as danger. You are doing in the nineteenth century and in the midst of civilization what your forefathers may have done in the days of chivalry.” “It is a fine life,” I said dryly. “But it has its drawbacks.” “But while you live no one can harm the child,” she said. There was inquiry in her tone, I thought.