"I've a right to ask one thing of you--that there will be no bloodshed to-night because of what I have told you."
"There will be none of my seeking," he replied grimly.
"No. That's not enough. You must find a way to avoid it."
"By handing over my hard-earned dishonest profits to the virtuous Verinder?" he asked dryly.
"I don't care how. But I won't have on my shoulders ... murder."
"That's a right hard word, neighbor," he said, falling again into the Western drawl he sometimes used as a mark of his friendship for her. "But have it your own way. I'll not even tote a gat."
"Thank you." She gave him a brisk little nod, suddenly choked up in her throat, and turned to go.
Jack fell into step beside her. "Have I lost my little friend--the one who used to come to me in my dreams and whisper with a lisp that I wasn't a 'stwanger'?" he asked, very gently.
She swallowed twice and walked on without looking at him. But every nerve of her was conscious of his stimulating presence. Since the inner man found expression in that lithe body with the undulating flow of well-packed muscles, in the spare head set so finely on the perfect shoulders, in the steady eyes so frank and self-reliant, surely he was not unworthy the friendship of any woman. But he had just confessed himself a thief. What right had he to ask or she to give so much?
Her hand went out in an impetuous little gesture of despair. "How do I know? You are doing wrong, but ... Oh, why do you do such things?"
"It's in my blood not to let prudence stop me when I've made up my mind to a thing. My father was that way. I'm trying in a rough way to right an injustice--and I like the excitement--and I daresay I like the loot too," he finished with a reckless laugh.
"I wish I could show you how wrong you are," she cried in a low voice.
"You can't. I'll go my own way. But you are still going to let me come and visit you in your dreams, aren't you?"
The glow in her quick live eyes was not a reflection of the sun. She felt the color flood her cheeks in waves. She dared not look at him, but she was poignantly aware that his gaze was fixed on her, that it seemed to bore to the soul and read the hidden secret there. A queer lightheadedness affected her. It was as if her body might float away into space. She loved him. Whatever he was, the man held her heart in the hollow of his careless, reckless hand. To him she would always deny it--or would have if he had thought enough of her to ask--but she knew the truth about herself from many a passionate hour of despair.