“Wait,” she replied, detaining me.  “Didn’t you say they were hunting for you?”

“They sure are,” I returned grimly.

“Oh!  Then you mustn’t go.  They might shoot you before you got away.  Stay.  If we hear them you can hide under my bed.  I’ll turn out the light.  I’ll meet them at the door.  You can trust me.  Stay, Russ.  Wait till all quiets down, if we have to wait till morning.  Then you can slip out.”

“Sally, I oughtn’t to stay.  I don’t want to—­I won’t,” I replied perplexed and stubborn.

“But you must.  It’s the only safe way.  They won’t come here.”

“Suppose they should?  It’s an even chance Sampson’ll search every room and corner in this old house.  If they found me here I couldn’t start a fight.  You might be hurt.  Then—­the fact of my being here—­” I did not finish what I meant, but instead made a step toward the door.

Sally was on me like a little whirlwind, white of face and dark of eye, with a resoluteness I could not have deemed her capable of.  She was as strong and supple as a panther, too.  But she need not have been either resolute or strong, for the clasp of her arms, the feel of her warm breast as she pressed me back were enough to make me weak as water.  My knees buckled as I touched the chair, and I was glad to sit down.  My face was wet with perspiration and a kind of cold ripple shot over me.  I imagined I was losing my nerve then.  Proof beyond doubt that Sally loved me was so sweet, so overwhelming a thing, that I could not resist, even to save her disgrace.

“Russ, the fact of your being here is the very thing to save you—­if they come,” Sally whispered softly.  “What do I care what they think?” She put her arms round my neck.  I gave up then and held her as if she indeed were my only hope.  A noise, a stealthy sound, a step, froze that embrace into stone.

“Up yet, Sally?” came Sampson’s clear voice, too strained, too eager to be natural.

“No.  I’m in bed, reading.  Good night, Uncle,” instantly replied Sally, so calmly and naturally that I marveled at the difference between man and woman.  Perhaps that was the difference between love and hate.

“Are you alone?” went on Sampson’s penetrating voice, colder now.

“Yes,” replied Sally.

The door swung inward with a swift scrape and jar.  Sampson half entered, haggard, flaming-eyed.  His leveled gun did not have to move an inch to cover me.  Behind him I saw Wright and indistinctly, another man.

“Well!” gasped Sampson.  He showed amazement.  “Hands up, Russ!”

I put up my hands quickly, but all the time I was calculating what chance I had to leap for my gun or dash out the light.  I was trapped.  And fury, like the hot teeth of a wolf, bit into me.  That leveled gun, the menace in Sampson’s puzzled eyes, Wright’s dark and hateful face, these loosened the spirit of fight in me.  If Sally had not been there I would have made some desperate move.