both arms up over his head. The signal came out again on the window sill, instantly.
It was done. They were coming.
When he returned to the room, guiltily, Mary was still at the table and Whately was walking up and down. “I guess, I ’ll get my clothes on,” Barney explained, “an’ go ’n’ look up my hat—down the road.”
Whately was near the inner door. “I ’ll get them,” he said. Mary did not speak. She was sitting with her elbows on the table, her hands lying clasped before her, staring aside at the window; and Barney understood that she was concealing tears. He took the clothes from Whately and hurried upstairs to dress. They would be coming in the automobile. He had only one idea—to get away before they came.
He limped down stairs very quietly in his broken shoes, his coat ripped at the shoulder, his trouser legs torn at the knees. He had intended to slip out without her noticing him, but she was sitting on the couch beside the
