She was sure that Pollard did not, could not suspect that she meant to say anything to King, or that she counted on having him carry a message for her.  But she knew, too, that Henry Pollard was taking no chances he did not have to take.  He was a man to play close to the table.

She had time to determine that she would succeed in this one vital point, time to hope, to fear, to lose hope a dozen times, before her chance came.  She heard a step on the walk under the pear trees, Broderick’s step, she thought swiftly, despairingly.  Usually Pollard kept the front door locked; she had not locked it after she had let Bud King in.  Pollard would know it was Broderick and would merely call, “Come in,” not even leaving the room for the one necessary moment.  Broderick would come in, Bud King would go soon and she would have no chance of doing the thing she had sworn to herself that she would do.

Her one hope was that she had mistaken the step and that it was not Broderick.  When the man outside came up the steps, she heard his spurs jingle on the porch and saw that Pollard too was listening intently.

“Come in,” called Pollard.  “The door’s open, Ben.”

Why, why hadn’t she locked the door?  Now there would be two men to watch her, now it would be impossible...

But fresh hope leaped up into her heart, though she could scarce believe her ears when Broderick’s voice in answer was like the snarl of a beast, harsh with anger, snapping out his words fiercely: 

“Come out here.  I want to talk with you outside.  And, for God’s sake, man, hurry!”

Pollard, too, started.  Bud King looked up with wondering eyes from his swinging hat.  Pollard, with the briefest sign of hesitation, went out of the room and to the front door.

No sooner had he gone than the girl, her face flushed, her eyes brilliant with the excitement in them, snatched the paper from the bosom of her dress and, tiptoeing to King, forced it into his big hand.  Not a word did she speak, not so much as a whisper.  But she laid her finger upon her lips, glanced from him toward the door, and tiptoed back to her seat.  And Bud King understood in part while he could not understand in full, and thrust the note into his pocket.

When a moment later King rose to go she went with him to the door.  She caught a glimpse of Ben Broderick’s face, though he hid it from her instantly, whirling about upon his heel; she felt sick and dizzy with a sudden dread of she knew not what.  For his face was dead white and horribly drawn with the rage that blazed in his eyes and distorted his mouth, and she saw, standing up in his soul, that thing which one may not look upon and misread:  that rage that drives a man to kill.  And she saw, too, that a white bandage was tied about his head, under his hat brim, and that the bandage was red with blood.

CHAPTER XXIV