Hale had never forgot
that, and if it had not been absurd he would have stopped the
prisoner from staring at her now. An anxious look had come into
Rufe's eyes--would she lie for him?
"Never," said June. Ah, she would--she was a Tolliver and Rufe
took a breath of deep content.
"You never heard him express any enmity toward the Police Guard--
before that night?"
"I have answered that question," said June with dignity and Rufe's
lawyer was on his feet.
"Your Honour, I object," he said indignantly.
"I apologize," said the deep voice--"sincerely," and he bowed to
June. Then very quietly:
"What was the last thing you heard the prisoner say that afternoon
when he left your father's house?"
It had come--how well she remembered just what he had said and
how, that night, even when she was asleep, Rufe's words had
clanged like a bell in her brain--what her awakening terror was
when she knew that the deed was done and the stifling fear that
the victim might be Hale. Swiftly her mind worked--somebody had
blabbed, her step-mother, perhaps, and what Rufe had said had
reached a Falin ear and come to the relentless man in front of
her.
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