“Of course, they scouted around and got most of the boys that were with you, but they couldn’t get right down to brass tacks and prove anything except that they were with you at the beach.  They’re still holding them on bail or something, I believe.  You know how those things kind of drop out of the news.  There was a big police scandal came along and crowded all you little bandits off the front page.  But I know the trial hasn’t taken place yet, because Fred would have to be a witness, so he’d know, of course.  And, besides, the man hasn’t died or got well or anything, yet, and they’re waiting to see what he’s going to do.”

“Who’s Fred?” Jack stood up and leaned toward her, feeling all at once that he must know, and know at once, who Fred might be.

“Why, he’s Kate’s brother.  He’s down here at Toll-Gate cabin, working out the assessments—­”

Jack sat down again and caressed his bruised knuckles absently.  “Well, then, I guess this is the finish,” he said dully, after a minute.

“Why?  He’ll never climb up here—­and if he did he wouldn’t know you.  He couldn’t recognize your face by the number of your car, you know!” Then she added, with beautiful directness, “It wouldn’t be so bad, if you hadn’t been the ringleader and put the other boys up to robbing cars.  But I suppose—­”

Jack got up again, but this time he towered belligerently above her.  “Who says I was the ringleader?  If it was Fred I’ll go down there and push his face into the back of his neck for him!  Who—­”

“Oh, just those nice friends of yours.  They wouldn’t own up to anything except being with you, but told everybody that it was you that did it.  But honestly I didn’t believe that.  Hardly any of us girls at the Martha did.  But Fred—­”

Just then the telephone rang again, and Jack had to go in and report the present extent of the fire, and tell just where and just how fast it was spreading, and what was the direction of the wind.  The interruption steadied him, gave him time to think.

Since the girl knew him, and knew the circumstances of his flight, and since the boys had turned on him, Jack argued with himself that he might just as well tell her what little there was to tell.  There was nothing to be gained by trying to keep the thing a secret from her.  Besides, he craved sympathy, though he did not admit it.  He craved the privilege of talking about that night to some one who would understand, and who could be trusted.  Marion Rose, he felt, was the only person in the world he could tell.  He could talk to her—­Lord, what a relief that would be!  He could tell her all about it, and she would understand.  Her sympathy at that moment seemed the most precious thing in the world.

So he went outside and sat down again on the bench, and told her the exact truth about that night; how it had started in drunken foolery, and all the rest of it.  He even explained the exact route he had taken home so as to come into town apparently from Pasadena.