the other night; to tell the truth, I heard where he might be and I got hold of him—I had a little trouble, you see—but I took him out of town and left him up near Freeport. It seemed better to get him out of the way."
And Gregg lightly sketched his combat with Russell and explained what he hoped would be the result.
Billy came to him and grasped his arm and felt over him with anxious affection to make sure that he really was as "all right" as he claimed to be.
"You shouldn't have tried anything like that, Gregg; Russell might have killed you. Then what good would it have done?"
"Well, he didn't," Gregg reminded, manifestly.
"No; but, Gregg—I hate to say it when you took all that trouble and might have got killed trying to help—but I can't see what good you've done. You say you've beaten up Russell, but really you've only shown him again that we're afraid of him—afraid to come out in the open, afraid to accuse and prosecute him for shooting Mr. Hale. You're just trying to do what Marjorie is—cover up and conceal; she thinks she can work out something that way. But she can't; she'll only get in deeper and deeper. I told her so to-night, Gregg; and she—she sent me away. I've quarreled with Marjorie; she told me to leave her house! Mrs. Hale invited me to dinner and Marjorie asked me to go; she didn't want me with her!"
With his hand still on Gregg's shoulder, he had forgotten Gregg's injury in new immersion in his own misery. And Gregg, too, forgot as he felt Billy's wretchedness. No one else could become so wretched as Bill and his bigness made it worse.
