"Then let me go back to Lafe's shop. I'll give you every cent I have.... I won't even ask for a dollar."
It took some time for Morse to digest this idea; then he slowly shook his head.
"You wouldn't be allowed to give me what would be mine----"
"If I die," breathed Jinnie, shocked. She had read his thought and blurted it forth.
"Yes, if you die. But I haven't any desire to kill you.... I have another way."
"What way? Oh, tell me!"
"Not now," drawled Morse. "Later perhaps."
The man contemplated the tips of his boots a minute. Then he looked at her, the meditative expression still in his eyes.
"To save your friends," he said at length, "you've got to do what I want you to."
"You mean--to save Lafe?" gasped Jinnie, eagerly.
Morse gave a negative gesture.
"No, not him. The cobbler's got to go. He knows too much about me."
Jinnie thought of Lafe, who loved and helped everybody within helping distance, of his wonderful faith and patience, of the day they had arrested him, and his last words.
She could not plan for herself nor think of her danger, only of the cobbler, her friend,----the man who had taken her, a little forlorn fugitive, when she had possessed no home of her own--he who had taught her about the angels and the tenderness of Jesus. From her uncle's last statement she had received an impression that he knew who had fired those shots. He could have Lafe released if he would. She would beg for the cobbler's life, beg as she had never begged before.
"Please, please, listen," she implored, throwing out her hands. "You must! You must! Lafe's always been so good. Won't you let him live?... I'll tell him about your wanting the money.... You shall have it! I'll make any promise for him you want me to, and he'll keep it.... He didn't kill Maudlin Bates, and I believe you know who did."
Morse lowered his lids until his eyes looked like grey slits across his face.
"Supposing I do," he taunted. "As I've said, Grandoken knows too much about me. He won't be the first one I've put out of my way."
He said this emphatically; he would teach her he was not to be thwarted; that when he desired anything, Heaven and earth, figuratively speaking, would have to move. He frowned darkly at her as Jinnie cut in swiftly: "You killed my father. He told me you did."
Morse flicked an ash from a cigar he had lighted, and his eyes grew hard, like rocks in a cold, gray dawn.