Mother Borton gave a low gurgling laugh.

"The law! oh, my liver,--the law! How young you are, my boy! Oh, ho, oh
ho!" And again she absorbed her mirthless laugh, and gave me an evil
grin. Then she became grave again, and laid a claw on my sleeve. "Take
my advice now, and git on the train."

"Not I!" I returned stoutly.

"I'm doing it for your own good," she said, with as near an approach to
a coaxing tone as she could command. It was long since she had used her
voice for such a purpose and it grated. "For my sake I'd like to see
you go on and wipe out the whole raft of 'em. But I know what'll happen
to ye, honey. I've took a fancy to ye. I don't know why. But there's a
look on your face that carries me back for forty years, and--don't try
it, dearie."

There were actually tears in the creature's eyes, and her hard, wicked
face softened, and became almost tender and womanly.

"I can't give up," I said. "The work is put on me. But can't you help
me? I believe you want to. I trust you. Tell me what to do--where I
stand. I'm all in the dark, but I must do my work." It was the best
appeal I could have made.

"You're right," she said. "I'm an old fool, and you've got the real
sand. You're the first one except Henry Wilton that's trusted me in
forty years, and you won't be sorry for it, my boy. You owe me one,
now. Where would you have been to-night if I hadn't had the light
doused on ye?"