“Alan!” I gasped.
He drew a quick breath, almost a sob of relief. I knew then he hadn’t been able to see who it was coming on him in the dark.
“What are you doing here?”
“Sam Dorsey let me out to see . . . my father. Purcell’s in Baltimore. I’ve got to get right back.—Have you got those letters?”
“They’re in my bag,” I whispered. “Upstairs.”
“Would you get them? I’ll wait here. I’ve got to have them.”
His face, and his voice, were desperately urgent.
I nodded.
He took a step toward me. “Look, Mrs. Latham—if I’m not here, burn them, will you?”
His hand on my arm was cold and trembling.
I nodded again, turned and hurried around the end of the kitchen. I could hear the clatter of pots and pans, and old Yarborough’s voice quavering some incomprehensible dirge that had all the underto
