He was soon telling her how he met old Caleb Dyker and of how they talked at the little wayside spring, and of the old man’s story. Her interest was caught and her great brown eyes, sobered to an intense listening expression, were very rich and beautiful. And she listened to him without comment, which was unusual. He had really never seen her listen before, and he was stirred to something like eloquence in his narrative by the compliment of her attentive silence. If he was confused at all it was not because of his usual awkwardness of speech, but because her eyes were upon him. And soon he had told her the whole story, including the recent happenings on the mountain which identified Whalen with Anson Dyker. Tom had never before seen her so soberly receptive. She had never looked at him so long and so steadily. He found that her big, lustrous, listening eyes were quite as wonderful as her intelligence. Well not quite, but almost.... CHAPTER XXIX THE ONLY WAY It was something of a shock to Tom that Audry emerged so readily from the spell of his narrative and came right down to the main point. “I don’t see how you can ask me what you ought to do—if that is what you mean.” Tom sensed what she meant and tried to hold off the shock of it by pretending not to understand. “You mean I ought to speak to him? To tell him I know who he is? And ask him if he really did it?” Audry was at least more honest than he in her straightforwardness. “What do you mean, _tell_ him? Do you mean _warn_ him?” “N—no, not just exactly—” “Of course he did it,” Audry said. “But it isn’t a question of whether he did it or not; not as far as you’re concerned. He’s a fugitive from justice. He has a charge hanging over him. Any good citizen who knows the whereabouts of a person indicted for murder will notify the authorities. Is that what you wanted to ask my advice about?” “Y—yes,” said Tom weakly. He felt ashamed, wretched. “That’s what I—it’s hard—that’s why I wanted to—sort of to ask you. I—I know you don’t like him.” “I don’t see that it’s a question of liking—” “Oh yes, it is too,” Tom flared up in a burst of sentiment and loyalty. “It’s a question of liking with _me_ anyway. Do you think I forget how he saved my life? Do you think I forget his—the way he’s treated me? Hard? It’s so hard I won’t do it—I _can’t_ do it. Gee, Audry, don’t ask me to do that,” he added weakening. “I’d do anything you said but don’t ask me to do that. It’s because I like you so much and I know you’re so much smarter than I am—that’s why I came to you. You can see now how much I care about you, can’t you? There must be _something_—” She laid her hand on his where it rested on the rock and the act was not without feeling. “Something—there must be _some_ way,” he almost pled.