She was ready to go on. But the newspaper gushed a good
deal over your looks, you remember. My curiosity was roused. I was--sort
of obsessed by the thought of you. I decided to see what your head was
like to look at before chopping it off. And anyhow, you'd already
started on your jaunt. Through a rich chap I knew in New York, who's
over here helping the Red Cross, I got leave to carry supplies to the
evacuated towns, provided I could find my own car. Well, I found
it--such as it is. All I ask of it is not to break down till the
Becketts have learned to love me as their dear, dead son's best friend.
As for Dare--what she was to the dear dead son depends on you."
"Depends on me?" I repeated.
"Depends on you. Dare's not a good Sunday-school girl, but she's good to
her brother--as good as you are to yours, in her way. She'll do what I
want. But the question is Will _you_?"
For a moment I did not speak. Then I asked, "What do you want?"
"Only a very little thing," he said. "To live and let live, that's all.
Don't you try to queer my pitch, and I won't queer yours."
"What is your pitch?" I asked.
He laughed. "You're very non-committal, aren't you? But I like your
pluck. You've never once admitted by word or look that you're caught.
All the same, you know you are. You can't hurt me, and I can hurt you.
Your word wouldn't stand against my proofs, if you put up a fight. You'd
go down--and your brother with you.
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