Briefly I told her what had happened before I entered her room, not omitting a terse word as to the character of the men I had watched.
“My God! So it's Uncle Roger! I knew something was very wrong here—with him, with the place, the people. And right off I hated George Wright. Russ, does Diane know?”
“She knows something. I haven't any idea how much.”
“This explains her appeal to Steele. Oh, it'll kill her! You don't know how proud, how good Diane is. Oh, it'll kill her!”
“Sally, she's no baby. She's got sand, that girl—”
The sound of soft steps somewhere near distracted my attention, reminded me of my peril, and now, what counted more with me, made clear the probability of being discovered in Sally's room. “I'll have to get out of here,” I whispered.
“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.
Sampson barred Wright from entering, which action showed control as well as distrust.
“You lied!” said Sampson to Sally. He was hard as flint, yet doubtful and curious, too.
“Certainly I lied,” snapped Sally in reply. She was cool, almost flippant. I awakened to the knowledge that she was to be reckoned with in this situation. Suddenly she stepped squarely between Sampson and me.
“Move aside,” ordered Sampson sternly.
“I won't! What do I care for your old gun? You shan't shoot Russ or do anything else to him. It's my fault he's here in my room. I coaxed him to come.”
“You little hussy!” exclaimed Sampson, and he lowered the gun.
If I ever before had occasion to glory in Sally I had it then. She betrayed not the slightest fear. She looked as if she could fight like a little tigress. She was white, composed, defiant.
“How long has Russ been in here?” demanded Sampson.
“All evening. I left Diane at eight o'clock. Russ came right after that.”
“But you'd undressed for bed!” ejaculated the angry and perplexed uncle.
“Yes.” That simple answer was so noncommittal, so above subterfuge, so innocent, and yet so confounding in its provocation of thought that Sampson just stared his astonishment. But I started as if I had been struck.
“See here Sampson—” I began, passionately.
Like a flash Sally whirled into my arms and one hand crossed my lips. “It's my fault. I will take the blame,” she cried, and now the agony of fear in her voice quieted me. I realized I would be wise to be silent. “Uncle,” began Sally, turning her head, yet still clinging to me, “I've tormented Russ into loving me. I've flirted with him—teased him—tempted him. We love each other now. We're engaged. Please—please don't—” She began to falter and I felt her weight sag a little against me.
“Well, let go of him,” said Sampson. “I won't hurt him. Sally, how long has this affair been going on?”
