"Hugh, dearest--are you afraid?" And his: "Trust me, little darling.
Love me." A kiss.

Then a sharp, whispered summons: "Quick, can't you, Pete? Get these
boards down."

When Pete turned, Hugh had dropped into the darkness, and Sylvie stood
flushed and with her hands over her face.

Bella had meantime been collecting the most characteristic of Hugh's
belongings--those that could not be supposed to belong to Pete--and
now thrust them down into the hiding-place. The boards were
rearranged, the rug laid evenly over them. Then the three stood
staring at one another, listening helplessly to the nearing sounds.

"Oh, Pete," Sylvie gasped, "tell me what I must do--or what I ought
to say."

"Tell them," said Bella, "what Hugh told you--that you are Pete's
wife. They'll be looking for a different household from that, and
it will help to put them off."

"But--but Pete won't look old enough."

"Yes, he will. He looks older than you," Bella declared harshly. "You
sit down and keep quiet; that's the best you can do; and for God's
sake don't look so scared. There's a grave outside to show them, and
nobody digs up a six-year-old grave. They won't find Hugh. Nobody's
ever seen him. Don't shake so, Sylvie. They may not even be after him;
this country has sheltered other outlaws, you know. Hush! I hear them.