“There’s a speaking-tube hole where we used to have a tube, but I took it out, ’cause it was too near the type-writer,” said he. “It’s just above the chair; if you put your ear to that hole I guess it would be the best thing. You can place every confidence in Mr. Wickliff; the chief of police here knows him well; he’s a perfect gentleman, and you don’t need to be afraid of hearing any rough language. No, ma’am.” Abbie’s head swam; she was glad to sit down. Almost mechanically she laid her ear to the hole. The first words audible came from Wickliff. “Certainly I will arrest you. And I’ll take you to Toronto to-night, and you can settle with the Canadian authorities about things. Rosenbaum offers a big reward; and Rosenbaum, I judge, is a good fellow, who will act liberally.” “I tell you I’m not Marker,” cried Slater, fiercely, “and it wouldn’t matter a damn if I was! Canada! You caynt run a man in for Canada!” Wickliff chuckled. “Can’t I?” said he; “that’s where you miss it, Marker. Now I haven’t any time to fool away; you can take your choice: go off peacefully—I’ve a hack at the door—and we’ll catch the 5:45 train for Toronto, and there you shall have all the law and justice you want; or you can just make one step towards that door, or one sound, and I’ll slug you over the head, and load you into the carriage neatly done up in chloroform, and when you wake up you’ll be on the train with a decent gentleman who doesn’t know anything about international law, but does know _me_, and wouldn’t turn his head if you hollered bloody murder. See?” “That won’t go down. You caynt kidnap me that way! I’ll appeal to the squire. No, no! I _won’t_! Before God, I won’t—I was jest fooling!” The voice of terror soothed Abbie’s raw nerves like oil on a burn. “He’s scared now, the coward!” she rejoiced, savagely. “There’s where we differ, then,” retorted Wickliff; “_I_ wasn’t.” “That’s all right. Only one thing: will you jest let me marry my sweetheart before I go, and I’ll go with you like a holy lamb; I will, by—” “No swearing, Marker. That lady don’t want to marry you, and she ain’t going to—” “_Ask_ her,” pleaded Slater, desperately. “I’ll leave it with her. If she don’t say she loves me and wants to marry me, I’ll go all right.” Abbie’s pulses stood still. “Been trying the hypnotic dodge again, have you?” said Wickliff, contemptuously. “Well, it won’t work this time. I’ve got too big a curl on you.” [Illustration: “‘HE’S SCARED NOW, THE COWARD’”] There was a pause the length of a heart-beat, and then the hated tones, shrill with fear: “I _wasn’t_ going to the window! I wasn’t going to speak—”