She remained hidden during the dinner-hour, and pleaded a headache when McNamara called in the early evening.  Although she had not seen him since he left her the night before, bearing her tacit promise to wed him, yet how could she meet him now with the conviction growing on her hourly that he was a master-rogue?  She wrestled with the thought that he and her uncle, her own uncle who stood in the place of a father, were conspirators.  And yet, at memory of the Judge’s cold-blooded request that she should turn traitress, her whole being was revolted.  If he could ask a thing like that, what other heartless, selfish act might he not be capable of?  All the long, solitary evening she kept her room, but at last, feeling faint, slipped down-stairs in search of Fred, for she had eaten nothing since her late breakfast.

Voices reached her from the parlor, and as she came to the last step she froze there in an attitude of listening.  The first sentence she heard through the close-drawn curtains banished all qualms at eavesdropping.  She stood for many breathless minutes drinking in the plot that came to her plainly from within, then turned, gathered up her skirts, and tiptoed back to her room.  Here she made haste madly, tearing off her house clothes and donning others.

She pressed her face to the window and noted that the night was like a close-hung velvet pall, without a star in sight.  Nevertheless, she wound a heavy veil about her hat and face before she extinguished the light and stepped into the hall.  Hearing McNamara’s “Good-night” at the front-door, she retreated again while her uncle slowly mounted the stairs and paused before her chamber.  He called her name softly, but when she did not answer continued on to his own room.  When he was safely within she descended quietly, went out, and locked the front-door behind her, placing the key in her bosom.  She hurried now, feeling her way through the thick gloom in a panic, while in her mind was but one frightened thought:  “I’ll be too late.  I’ll be too late.”

CHAPTER XVII

THE DRIP OF WATER IN THE DARK

Even after Helen had been out for some time she could barely see sufficiently to avoid collisions.  The air, weighted by a low-hung roof of clouds, was surcharged with the electric suspense of an impending storm, and seemed to sigh and tremble at the hint of power in leash.  It was that pause before the conflict wherein the night laid finger upon its lips.

As the girl neared Glenister’s cabin she was disappointed at seeing no light there.  She stumbled towards the door, only to utter a half-strangled cry as two men stepped out of the gloom and seized her roughly.  Something cold and hard was thrust violently against her cheek, forcing her head back and bruising her.  She struggled and cried out.

“Hold on—­it’s a woman!” ejaculated the man who had pinioned her arms, loosing his hold till only a hand remained on her shoulder.  The other lowered the weapon he had jammed to her face and peered closely.