He would never believe any lies they might tell--that she had departed without a word, without a message--he would find out the truth somehow; he was not the kind to lie down, to avoid danger when it confronted duty--and, besides, he cared.

She knew this, comprehended without question; there had been no word spoken, yet she knew.
Once she had accepted this knowledge with a smile, but now it thrilled her with hope, and set her heart throbbing strangely.

Not that she dreamed love in return, or permitted it to even enter her mind; yet the very thought that this man would, if necessary, wade into the very waters of death for her sake, was somehow sweet and consoling.

She was no longer alone; no longer hopeless and unnerved--deep down in her consciousness she trusted him.
"If"-- how often that recurred; how it brought back memory of Lacy, of Enright, of Beaton, of the La Rue woman.

What else could they have remained behind for, except to hide and close the trail?
It was Westcott they would guard against; he was the only one they now had any cause to fear.