But she knew that if she play her part as she must play it until she could have time for the definite shaping of plans, she must dance again with Broderick.  When he came for her she nodded carelessly, let him take her into his arms, and even looking up at him, forced a smile.  For surely, if these men could do what they were doing and give no hint of it, she could play her part with clear eyes and a steady heart.  She knew now that Ben Broderick was a highwayman, that he had forced upon her the insult of his kiss; already she suspected him of being the man who had murdered Bill Varney, who had committed crime upon crime.  But she knew, too, and with as clear a knowledge, that she must give no slightest sign of what her thoughts were.  And as a result Mrs. Sturgis, watching her, vowed to herself that “that Win Waverly was a little devil of a flirt!”

It seemed an endlessly long time until midnight.  The lunches which had come in baskets and boxes were spread out upon the benches, coffee was made outside and brought in in steaming, blackened coffee pots to be poured into tin cups, and the supper was a noisy, successful affair.  The girl so wanted to slip away, to get back into her own room at Pollard’s house where she might drop all pretence and think, think, think!  But she knew that she must seem to enjoy the dance, she must not let her uncle guess that the night had grown bitter in her mouth as it had in Buck Thornton’s.

The benches were cleared and pushed back against the walls, the musicians were at it again, when Pollard came to her.

“Don’t you think, Winifred, we’d better be going?” he asked quietly.  “It is late, we’ve got a good ride ahead of us and I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

But she pleaded for one more dance, and then one more, and finally with much seeming regretfulness allowed her uncle to slip on her cloak for her.

“I may be a hypocrite,” she told herself a little sternly, as she sat in the buckboard at her uncle’s side.  “But they are playing me for a little fool!  And ... and if they knew that I guessed....”

She shivered and Pollard asked if she were cold.

It was a swift drive with few words spoken.  Winifred, her chin sunk in her wraps, seemed to be dozing much of the way, and Henry Pollard had enough to think about to make the silence grateful.  The cream-coloured mares raced out across the level land of the valley, with little thought of the light wagon and much thought of the home stable and hay.  And, racing on, they sped at last through the long alley-like street of Hill’s Corners, into the glaring light from the saloons, by many shadows at the corners of houses, their ears smitten by much noise of loud voices and the clack of booted feet upon the board sidewalks.  When Pollard jerked in his team at his own front gate, the girl slipped quickly from the buckboard, saying quietly: 

“I think I’ll go right up to bed, Uncle Henry.  I’m a little tired.  Thank you for taking me.”