But with the Sheriff out of the way, Tom's problem was only partially solved. Time was passing while he plodded through the mud, and he was exhausted not only from his fall, but from the hard work preceding it. His head needed attention, too.
He finally fixed on Clare. The Hamels had a car, and Clare could be trusted not to talk. He was more cheerful after he thought of that, even faintly amused. Clare would like it; she would like to think she was saving him. He grinned at the thought, and made better progress as he reached the better roads. Outside the Hamel house he reconnoitered. The houses all about were dark, and Clare's window was raised an inch or two. He put his face close to it and called her.
"Clare!"
He could hear her stirring.
"Clare. Come here, It's Tom."
She slid out of bed, trembling.
"What's the matter?"
"Get something on and come out to the shed. And don't wait to fix up. Be yourself!"
When she got out to the shed where the car was stabled, he had rolled a cigarette and was lighting it, and by the match flare she saw the blood on his face. He put a hand over her mouth before she could scream.
"Wire cut, that's all," he said. "You run in and get some warm water and adhesive, like a good girl, and then I'll talk to you."
But when, his wound cleaned and plastered, he told her what he wanted, he found her less amenable than he had expected.
"That's easy to say," she said. "What about me? They'll lock me up. And you know pop. He'd"
"You can get back by daylight."
"With these roads? You know I can't. I'll be lucky to get back at all."
"What's all this fuss you've been making about me, if you won't take a chance?"
"Why should I take a chance? You threw me over for
