At her words Bridge kneeled and searched the two tramps.  He counted the bills as he removed them from their pockets.

“Eleven hundred?” he asked, and handed the money to Billy.

“Eleven hundred, yes,” breathed the woman, faintly, her eyes horror-filled and fearful as she gazed upon Billy’s face.  She didn’t care for the money any more—­they could have it all if they would only let her live.

Billy turned toward her and held the rumpled green mass out.

“Here,” he said; “but that’s an awful lot o’ coin for a woman to have about de house—­an’ her all alone.  You ought not to a-done it.”

She took the money in trembling fingers.  It seemed incredible that the man was returning it to her.

“But I knew it,” she said finally.

“Knew what?” asked Billy.

“I knew you was a good boy.  They said you was a murderer.”

Billy’s brows contracted, and an expression of pain crossed his face.

“How did they come to say that?” he asked.

“I heard them telephonin’ to Kansas City to the police,” she replied, and then she sat bolt upright.  “The detectives are on their way here now,” she almost screamed, “and even if you are a murderer I don’t care.  I won’t stand by and see ’em get you after what you have done for me.  I don’t believe you’re a murderer anyhow.  You’re a good boy.  My boy would be about as old and as big as you by now—­if he lives.  He ran away a long time ago—­maybe you’ve met him.  His name’s Eddie—­Eddie Shorter.  I ain’t heard from him fer years.

“No,” she went on, “I don’t believe what they said—­you got too good a face; but if you are a murderer you get out now before they come an’ I’ll send ’em on a wild-goose chase in the wrong direction.”

“But these,” said Billy.  “We can’t leave these here.”

“Tie ’em up and give me the shotgun,” she said.  “I’ll bet they don’t come any more funny business on me.”  She had regained both her composure and her nerve by this time.

Together Billy and Bridge trussed up the two tramps.  An elephant couldn’t have forced the bonds they placed upon them.  Then they carried them down cellar and when they had come up again Mrs. Shorter barred the cellar door.

“I reckon they won’t get out of there very fast,” she said.  “And now you two boys run along.  Got any money?” and without waiting for a reply she counted twenty-five dollars from the roll she had tucked in the front of her waist and handed them to Billy.

“Nothin’ doin’,” said he; “but t’anks just the same.”

“You got to take it,” she insisted.  “Let me make believe I’m givin’ it to my boy, Eddie—­please,” and the tears that came to her eyes proved far more effective than her generous words.

“Aw, all right,” said Billy.  “I’ll take it an’ pass it along to Eddie if I ever meet him, eh?”

“Now please hurry,” she urged.  “I don’t want you to be caught—­even if you are a murderer.  I wish you weren’t though.”