Coming Through the Rye by Grace Livingston Hill

told I would find him here.”
    â€œThis is Judsons’,” stated Frances with finality. “I don’t know any Mr. Ransom.”
    â€œYou’re Frances Judson, aren’t you?”
    Frances was frightened, but she put on a bold face.
    â€œWell, what’s that got to do with the man you was talking about?”
    â€œYou’re the girl that was with him the other night when I stopped him on the road, up by the roadhouse. You remember. You were trying to make a getaway.”
    Frances cast a frightened glance up toward the stairs and, stepping out the door, hurriedly drew it to, lowering her voice.
    â€œOh, you mean Larry!” she whispered. “He’s just a kid I met that night. I didn’t know his name. He was taking me to ride. I don’t know him, honest I don’t. A friend of mine introduced us—”
    â€œYou can’t pull that off with me!” said the man gruffly. “I want to see Lawrence Ransom, and I mean to do it! You had both been drinking that night, and you had a whole case of liquor in the car—”
    â€œDon’t talk so loud!” pleaded Frances in a whisper. “I’ve got a little sick sister, and they don’t know if she’s going to live or not. They had a consultation t’day—they said she must be kep’ quiet—”
    â€œVery well,” said the man, lowering his voice a trifle. “I’ll be quiet if you’ll step aside and let me in. But you can’t put anything over on me.”
    â€œYou needn’t bother to keep quiet,” said a calm, stern voice over their heads. “He isn’t here, but I’ll come down and show you through the house. Frances, you come in the house and go to bed.”
    Frances cringed at her mother’s voice from the window above, and ducked into the house as her mother withdrew her head from the window and came heavily down the stairs. The girl hastily reviewed the interview and wondered how long her mother had been listening. There had been an ominous sound to her voice. She slid into the parlor with a defiant fright in her eyes and tried to look nonchalant before the girls, hoping they had not heard. But Sybil left no rag of doubt about that.
    â€œI wouldn’t stand fer that, Fran! Now’s the time ta get out!”
    But with strange suddenness Mrs. Judson stood beside her.
    â€œYes, now’s the time ta get out!” she repeated. “You girls better run right home ta yer mothers! Frances! There’s the stairs!”
    Then she turned her attention to the man who had entered in Frances’s wake.
    â€œWill you have a chair?” Her tone was sad and formal. Then to the girls: “You girls run along!”
    With defiant malice in their eyes the three visitors, chins up, sidled along the wall toward the hall, under the grilling gaze of the stranger. Suddenly the man pointed his pencil at Sybil.
    â€œWait! You’re another!”
    His words were like sharp scissors snipping off the words.
    Sybil lifted her chin, and her eyes grew hard and wicked. The sad eyes of Mrs. Judson looked at her for an instant, startled, and then glanced toward her own child with sudden understanding. She had thought these creatures were little children, and here—suddenly! What would come next? Her eyes went sternly to the frightened Frances standing huddled in her corner like a draggled nasturtium in her bright cheap draperies, and Frances quivered and slunk toward the door. But the bold black eyes of Sybil jeered at her, and Frances was forced to put up a feeble fight.
    â€œI ain’ta going upstairs now, Ma. I got company!” she said, trying to make her voice both conciliatory and defiant, although she could see from her mother’s face that her stand would be short-lived. When her mother was really roused, there was no gainsaying her.
    â€œLet her stay, will you, Mrs. Judson? I want to ask her some questions. And you three,