_ CHAPTER XII. THE BREAKING OF THE STORM
The master of Lonely Ranch was seated before the table in his unpretentious sitting-room. Before him were piled a number of open account-books, and books containing matters relating to the business of his ranch.
He was not looking at them now, but sat gazing at the blank wall in front of him with thoughtful, introspective eyes. His chin was resting upon his clenched hands, and his elbows were propped upon the table. He was sitting with his shirt-sleeves rolled up above his elbows, for the day was hot and the air was close and heavy. On one hand the window was wide open, but no jarring sounds came in to disturb the thinker. The door on the other side was also open wide. George Iredale showed no desire for secrecy. His attitude was that of a man who feels himself to be perfectly safe-guarded against any sort of surprise. Thus he sat in the quiet of the oppressive heat thinking of many things which chiefly concerned his life in the valley of Owl Hoot.
He had been going over the accounts which represented his fifteen years of labour in that quiet corner of the great Dominion, and the perusal had given him a world of satisfaction. Fifteen years ago he had first settled in the valley. He had acquired the land for a mere song; for no one would look at the region of Owl Hoot as a district suitable either for stock-raising or for the cultivation of grain. But he had seen possibilities in the place--possibilities which had since been realized even beyond his expectations. His sense of humour was tickled as he thought of the cattle he had first brought to the ranch--a herd of old cows which he had picked up cheap somewhere out West at the foot of the Rockies. He almost laughed aloud as he thought of the way in which he had fostered and added to the weird, stupid legends of the place, and how he had never failed to urge the undesirability of his neighbourhood for any sort of agriculture. And thus for fifteen years he had kept the surrounding country clear of inquisitive settlers. Life had been very pleasant, quiet, monotonous, and profitable for him, and, as he thought of it all, his eyes drooped again to his books before him, and he gazed upon a sea of entries in a long, thick, narrow volume which bore on the cover the legend--
OPIUM.
Yes, he never attempted to disguise from himself the nature of his calling. He plastered neither himself nor his trade with thick coatings of whitewash. He knew what he was, and faced the offensive title with perfect equanimity. He was a smuggler, probably the largest operator in the illicit traffic of opium smuggling, and the most successful importer of Chinese along the whole extent of the American border. He knew that the penitentiary was yearning for him; and he knew that every moment of his life was shadowed by the threat of penal servitude. And in the meantime he was storing up his wealth, not in driblets, dependent upon the seasons for their extent, but in huge sums which were proportionate to the risks he was prepared to run.
And his risks had been many, and his escapes narrow and frequent. But he had hitherto evaded the law, and now the time had come when he intended to throw it all up--to blot out at one sweep the traces of those fifteen prosperous years, and settle down to enjoy the proceeds of his toil.
It was only after much thought and after months of deliberation that he had arrived at this decision. For this man revelled in his calling with an enthusiasm which was worthy of an honest object. He was not a man whose natural inclinations leant towards law-breaking; far from it. Outside of his trade he lived a cleaner life than many a so-called law-abiding citizen. The risks he ran, the excitement of contraband trade had a fatal fascination which was as the breath of life to him; a fascination which, with all his strength of mind in every other direction, he was as powerless to resist as were the consumers powerless to resist the fascinations of the drug he purveyed.
But now he stood face to face with a contingency he had never taken into his considerations. He had fallen a victim to man's passion for a woman; and he had been forced to a choice between the two things. Either he must renounce all thoughts of Prudence Malling, or he must marry her, and break from all his old associations. To a man of Iredale's disposition the two things were quite incompatible. The steady growth of his love for this girl, a love which absorbed all that was best in his deep, strong nature, had weighed heavily in the balance; and, reluctant though the master of Lonely Ranch was to sever himself from the traffic which had afforded him so much wealth, and so many years of real, living moments, his decision had been taken with calm deliberation; the fiat had gone forth. Henceforth the traffic in yellow would know him no more.
He rose from his seat, and crossing the room stood gazing out of the open window. Finally his eyes were turned up towards the heavy banking of storm-clouds which hovered low over the valley.
Already the greater portion of his plans had been carefully laid. They had been costly for many reasons. His agents were men who required to be dealt with liberally. However, everything had been satisfactorily settled. Now only remained the disposal of the ranch. This was rather a delicate matter for obvious reasons. He wished to effectually obliterate all traces of the traffic he had carried on there.
He went back to the table and picked up an official-looking letter. It was a communication from Robb Chillingwood, written on the municipal notepaper of Ainsley.
He read the letter carefully through.
"MY DEAR MR. IREDALE,"
"There is a man named Gordon Duffield stopping at the hotel here, who has lately arrived from Scotland. I have effected the sale of the Dominion Ranch--you know, the German, Grieg's, old place--to him. He is a man of considerable means, and is going in largely for stock-raising. He has commissioned me to buy something like five thousand head of cows and two-year-old steers for him. His bulls he brought out with him. You will understand the difficulty I shall have in obtaining such a bunch of suitable animals; and I thought you might have some surplus stock that you wish to dispose of at a reasonable price. You might let me know by return if such is the case, always bearing in mind when you make your quotations that the gentleman hails from old Scotia. There is shortly to be a great boom in emigration from both the old country and the States, and I am now combining the business of land agent with my other duties, and I find it a paying concern. Let me know about the cattle at your earliest convenience.
"Yours truly,
"ROBB CHILLINGWOOD."
Iredale smiled as he read the letter over.
"Comes at an opportune moment," he said to himself. "Surplus stock, eh? Well, I think I can offer him all the stock he needs at a price which will meet with the approval of even a canny Scot. I'll write him at once."
He seated himself at his table and wrote a long letter asking Chillingwood to come out and see him, and, at the same time, offering to dispose of the stock of Lonely Ranch. He sealed the letter, and then returned his account-books to their hiding-place behind the bookcase. Then he went to the door and summoned his head man.
In spite of the habit of years, Iredale was not without a strong sense of relief as he reviewed the progress of the disestablishment of the ranch. He remembered how narrowly he had escaped from Leslie Grey less than a year ago, and now that he had begun to burn his boats he was eager to get through with the process.
The ferret-faced Chintz framed himself in the doorway.
"My horse!" demanded his master. "And, Chintz, I want you to take this letter to Lakeville and post it with your own hands. You understand?"
The little man nodded his head.
"Good!" Iredale paused thoughtfully. "Chintz," he went on a moment later, "we've finished with opium. We retire into private life from now out--you and I. We are going to leave Owl Hoot. How does that suit you?"
The little man cheerfully nodded, and twisted his face into a squinting grimace intended for a pleasant smile. Then his eyebrows went up inquiringly. Iredale took his meaning at once.
"I don't know where we are going as yet. But you'll go with me. I want you to remain my 'head man.'"
Chintz nodded. There could be no doubt from his expression that he was devoted to his master.
"Right. Send my horse round at once. I am going to Loon Dyke, and shall be back for supper."
The man departed, and the rancher prepared for his ride.
When George Iredale set out for Loon Dyke the valley was shrouded in the gloom of coming storm. But he knew the peculiarities of the climate too well to be alarmed. The storm, he judged, would not break until nearly sundown, and then it would only be short and sharp. In the meantime he would have reached the farm. There was a curious, unconscious rapidity in his way of settling up his affairs. It was as though some strange power were urging him to haste. This may have been the result of the man's character, for he was of a strikingly vigorous nature. He had put the machinery in motion, and now he primed it with the oil of eager desire to see the work swiftly carried out.
As his horse galloped over the prairie--he took the direct route of the crow's flight--his thoughts centred upon the object of his visit. He saw nothing of the pleasant fields and pastures through which his journey took him. The threat of coming storm was nothing to him. For all heed he paid to it the sky might have been of a tropical blue. The ruffling prairie chicken rose lazily in their coveys, with their crops well filled with the gleanings of the harvested wheat fields, but he scarcely even saw them. All he saw was the sweet, dark face of the girl to whom he intended to put the question which women most love to hear; whether it be put by the man of their choice or by some one for whom they care not a cent. He had always longed for this day to come, but, until now, had never seen how such could ever dawn for him. It had been a great wrench to sever himself from the past, but his decision once taken his heart was filled with thankfulness, and never had he felt so free from care as now. He realized all that a lover may realize of his own unworthiness, but he allowed himself no extravagances of thought in this direction. Prudence was a good woman, he knew, and he intended, if Fate so willed, to devote the rest of his life to her happiness. As he drew near to his destination his heart beat a shade faster, and doubts began to assail him. He found himself speculating upon his chances of success. He believed that the daughter of Hephzibah Malling regarded him with favour, but nothing had gone before to give him any clue to her maiden feelings. He wondered doubtfully, and, in proportion, his nervousness increased.
Out upon the trail, at a distance, he saw a horseman riding away from the farm; he did not even trouble about the rider's identity. The strong, reckless nature, concealed beneath his quiet exterior, urged him on to learn his fate. Nothing mattered to him now but his sentence as pronounced by the child of the prairie whose love he sought.
There were three occupants of the sitting-room at the farm. Prudence and Alice Gordon were at the table, which was covered by a litter of tweed dress material and paper patterns. Prudence was struggling with a maze of skirt-folds, under which a sewing-machine was almost buried. Alice was cutting and pinning and basting seams at the other end of the table. Sarah Gurridge was standing beside the open window watching the rising of the storm.
Conversation came spasmodically. The girls were intent upon their work.
"It's all very well to have new dresses," said Prudence, with an impatient tug at the material on which the machine was operating, "but I'm afraid half the pleasure of them is absorbed by the process of 'making.' Oh, these endless seams! And I don't believe a single one of them is straight. I feel quite hopeless."
"Cheer up, Prue," said Alice, without looking up. She herself was endeavouring to set a wristband pattern upon a piece of stuff so that she could get the two bands out of barely enough cloth for one. "You should use more dash when working a machine. When you are turning it, imagine you are driving a 'through mail' to the coast and have to make up time. The seams will come all right."
"Yes; and break cotton and needles, and--and land the engine over the side of a cut-bank, or run down a gang of plate-layers or something. There now, I've run clean off the cloth. I wish you wouldn't talk so much."
The two girls laughed whilst they joined efforts in righting the catastrophe.
"Isn't it getting dark?" said Alice, when Prudence had once more settled to work.
Sarah spoke without turning from the window.
"The storm's banking, child. The lightning is already flashing over Owl Hoot way. Hervey will only just escape it."
"What did he want to go over to the ranch for?" asked Prudence. "He never seems to go anywhere else now. I should think Mr. Iredale will get sick of having him always round."
"My dear," observed Sarah, with unction, "when two men enjoy destroying the harmless life which the good God has set upon the prairie, they never tire of one another's society. Men who would disdain to black a pair of boots would not hesitate to crawl about in the mud and damp reeds of a swamp at daybreak to slaughter a few innocent ducks. There is a bond amongst sportsmen which is stronger than all the vows made at any altar. Hervey's delight in destroying life is almost inhuman. I trust he never shoots sitting game."
"I should hope not," said Prudence. "I would never own him as a brother if he did. Hello, Neche," as the door was pushed slowly open and the great husky limped heavily into the room. The animal looked round him in a dignified, unblinking way, and then came over to Prudence's side and leisurely curled himself up on the skirt of her dress. "Say, old boy," she added, looking down at the recumbent form, "if mother comes in and finds you here you'll leave the room hurriedly."
Alice laid her scissors down and looked over at her friend.
"Hervey seems quieter than ever lately. He won't even take the trouble to quarrel."
"And a good thing too," said Prudence shortly.
Sarah turned and surveyed the two girls for a moment, an amused expression was in her dreamy eyes. Then she turned back to the window as the first distant growl of the coming storm made itself heard.
"Hervey only quarrels when his mind is in a state of stagnation. The mind of a man is very like a pool of water. Let it stand, and it corrodes with matter which throws off offensive odours. The longer it stands the worse state it gets into. Set the water in motion, turn it into a running stream, and it at once cleanses itself. Hervey's mind has been lately set in motion. I have noticed the change."
"He has certainly become less offensive of late," said Alice. "I wonder what has changed him."
"Food for mental occupation," said Sarah.
"'A life monotonous, unrelieved, breeds selfish discontent,
Dead'ning a mind to lofty thought for which by nature meant.'"
Prudence brought the machine to a standstill, and propping one elbow upon the table rested her chin upon her hand.
"I believe you are right, Aunt Sarah," she said slowly. "Hervey's certainly found something which has set him thinking. I rather fancy I know--or can guess--what it is that has roused him."
The old lady turned from the window and gazed curiously at her pupil. She was keenly interested. The recreation of her life was the observation of her kind. Her logic and philosophy may not always have been sound, but she never failed to arrive somewhere in the region of the truth. The recent change in Hervey had puzzled her.
"He asked me yesterday to let him see that notice in the
Free Press which appeared when Leslie was murdered," Prudence went on. "He also asked me what Leslie's dying words were. He insisted on the exact words."
"The storm will break soon," observed Sarah. She had turned away to the window.
"I wonder," said Alice; "perhaps he has discovered----" She broke off meaningly.
"That's what I think," said Prudence.
Sarah shook her head; but what she meant to convey was uncertain, for she had her back turned and she said nothing at the moment. Prudence restarted her machine and Alice reluctantly bent over her patterns. Sarah moved back from the window. She saw a horseman galloping over the prairie in the direction of the house. She had recognized Iredale.
"Girls," she said, her soft eyes turning on Prudence's bent head, "I really think some one should be helping the mother. This is baking day." Prudence looked up with an expression of contrition. "No--no, not you, child. You stay here and get on with your fandangles and dressmaking. I'll go and help her."
Without waiting for a reply she darted off. She had no intention of having her innocent little scheme upset. The moment after her departure the clatter of horse's hoofs came in through the open window. Alice, looking up, saw Iredale dismounting from his horse. She jumped up to go to the front door.
"Here's Mr. Iredale!" she exclaimed. Then: "So he's returned home. I'm so glad. One scarcely knows the place without him."
She dashed out to meet him, and, a moment later, returned ushering him in.
"Mr. George Iredale," she announced, with mock ceremony. Then she stood aside to allow him to pass, bowing low as he entered the room. She stood for a moment smiling upon the burly figure. She noted how the plain features lit up at the sight of the girl bending over the sewing-machine. Then she gave herself an obvious cue.
"I'll go and call mother Hephzy," she said, and retreated hastily to the bake-house.
Iredale moved over to where Prudence was sitting She had ceased work to greet him, but she did not rise from the table. Neche surveyed the intruder, grunted and closed his eyes again. Prudence was half inclined to resent Alice's sudden departure. Alice was in her confidence; she knew her feelings as regarded George Iredale. She considered her friend's action was unkind.
"You mustn't let me disturb you, Prudence," Iredale said in his low, pleasant voice. "What is this"--fingering the material--"a new fall dress? Wonderful how you can cope with the intricacies of the manufacture of such things. It would be a very sorry day for me if I were left to cut my own coats." He laughed nervously.
Prudence detected an unusual eagerness in his voice, and something warned her that this man had come over that afternoon to see her alone. She joined in the laugh, but her eyes remained quite serious.
"When did you come back from town?" she asked, after a pause.
"I haven't been to town. I've been across the border. My business took me into Minnesota."
"Oh, I thought you had been to Winnipeg." She stooped and caressed the great dog at her feet.
Iredale shook his head. A vivid flash of lightning shot across the open window, and a crash of thunder followed it immediately. The storm was breaking at last.
"I'll close the window." Iredale moved across the room to do so. Prudence looked after him. When he returned he sat himself in Alice's chair, having brought it nearer to the machine. Then followed a long silence while the machine rattled down a seam. The man watched the nimble fingers intently as they guided the material under the needle. The bent head prevented him seeing more than the barest outline of the girl's cheek, but he seemed content. Now that the moment had arrived for him to speak, he was quite master of himself.
"Prudence," he began, at last, "I am giving up my ranch. I have been making the necessary arrangements. I have done with money-making."
"Really." The girl looked up sharply, then down again at her work. She had encountered the steady gaze of the man's earnest eyes. "Are you going to--to leave us?" She was conscious of the lameness of her question.
"I don't quite know. That depends largely upon circumstances. I am certainly about to seek pleasant places, but I cannot tell yet where those pleasant places will be found. Perhaps you will help me."
"How?" The seam swerved out into a great bow, and Prudence was forced to go back over it.
"Easily enough, if you will."
The girl did not answer, but busied herself with the manipulation of her machine. Her face had paled, and her heart was thumping in great pulsations. Iredale went on. He had assumed his characteristic composure. What fire burned beneath his calm exterior, it would have needed the discerning eyes of Sarah Gurridge to detect, for, beyond the occasional flashing of his quiet grey eyes, there was little or no outward sign.
"I have known you for a good many years, child; years which have helped to put a few grey hairs on my head, it is true, but still years which have taught me something which I never dreamed of learning out here on the prairie. They have taught me that such a thing as love exists for every man on this earth, and that somewhere in this world there is a woman who can inspire him with feelings which make the pettinesses of his own solitary existence seem very small indeed. I have learned that man was not made to live alone, but that a certain woman must share his life with him, or that life is an utterly worthless thing. I have learned that there is but one woman in the world who can help me to the better, loftier aspirations of man, and that woman is--you, Prudence."
The girl had ceased to work, and was staring straight in front of her out of the window, where the vivid lightning was now flashing incessantly. As Iredale pronounced the last words she shook her head slowly--almost helplessly. The man had leaned forward in his chair, and his elbows rested on his parted knees, and his hands were tightly clasped.
"Don't shake your head, dear," he went on, with persuasive earnestness. "Hear me out first, and then you shall give me your decision. I know I am much older than you, but surely that disparity need not stand in our way. I dare say I have many more years of life yet left than lots of younger men. Besides, I am rich--very rich. With me you can live the life you choose. If you wish to stay here on the prairie, why, you shall have the most perfect farm that money can buy; if, on the other hand, you choose to see the world, you only have to say the word. Prudence, I know I am not a very attractive man. I have little to recommend me, and my life has not always been spent as perhaps it should have been; but I love you very dearly, and my future shall be devoted to your happiness. Will you be my wife?"
There was a deafening crash of thunder which seemed to come from directly overhead. The dog started up with a growl. Then he stood looking up into the girl's face. The dying reverberations slowly rolled away and left the room in deathly silence. The serious light in the girl's eyes was augmented by the decided set of her mouth. She kept her face studiously turned from Iredale, who, observing with all the intuition of a man in deadly earnest, read in her expression something of what his answer was to be.
"Can you not--do you not care for me sufficiently?"
The words contained such a world of appeal that Prudence felt herself forced to turn in his direction. She now looked squarely into his eyes, nor was there the faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her manner. The moment had come when she must choose between herself and her self-imposed duty. She knew that she loved Iredale, but--she checked something which sounded very like a sigh. She had listened to the precepts of Sarah Gurridge all her life, and, in consequence, she had learned to regard her duty before all things. She now conceived she had a great duty to perform. She felt so helpless--so feeble in the matter; but the voice of conscience held her to her mistaken course.
"I believe I love you; I am sure I care for you very, very much, but----"
"Then you will marry me." The man reached out to take her hand, but she drew it back. His eager eyes shone in the stormy darkness in which the room was bathed.
She shook her head.
"When Leslie Grey was murdered I made a vow that I would not rest until the murderer was brought to justice. My vow is unfulfilled. I could not marry you and be happy while this is so. Do you know what marriage with you would mean? Simply that I should make no effort to fulfil my vow to the dead. I cannot marry you now."
Iredale was staggered by the woeful wrong-mindedness under which he considered she was labouring. For a moment he could scarcely find words to express himself.
"But--but surely, child, you are not going to let this phantom of duty come between us? Oh, you can never do such a thing! Besides, we would work together; we would not leave a stone unturned to discover the wretch who did him to death----"
He broke off. Prudence answered swiftly, and the set of her face seemed to grow harder as she felt the difficulty of abiding by her resolve.
"This is no phantom of duty, George. It is very much a reality. I cannot marry you--until--until----"
Iredale was smiling now. The shock of the girl's strange decision had passed. He saw something of the motive underlying it. Her sense of duty seemed to have warped her judgment, and, with quiet firmness, he meant to set it aside.
"And this is the only reason for refusing me?" he asked. He had become serious again; he seemed merely to be seeking assurance.
"Yes. Oh, George, can't you see how it is?" She gazed appealingly into his face. And the man had to keep a very tight hold upon his feelings.
"I am afraid I am a little dense, child," he said gravely.
"I must make you understand," Prudence went on with nervous haste. Her conscience urged her forward, whilst her love prompted her to set aside all recollection of the dead and to bask in the love this man offered her. She was a simple, womanly soul, trying with all the strength of her honest purpose to resist the dictates of her love, and to do that which seemed right in her own eyes. The task she had set herself had seemed easy when she had spoken of it to Alice, but now in the face of this man's love, in the face of her own self-realization, it seemed beyond her strength. "Listen to me, and you will see for yourself that I must not marry you--yet. I believed that I loved Leslie Grey truly, fondly. As I look back now I am sure I did. I was never happy but when I was with him. He seemed so strong and resolute. I never had a moment in which to doubt myself. Then, when he died, the agony I suffered was something too dreadful to contemplate. As he lay on the little bed with his life slowly ebbing, and I watched him dying by inches, I was filled with such horror and despair that I thought surely I should go mad. Then it dawned on me that he had been murdered, and my anguish turned to a dreadful feeling of rage and longing to avenge him. Never in my life did I experience such terrible passion as at that moment. I believe at the time I really was mad. The one thought in my mind was, 'Who--who has done this thing?' Then Leslie died, and in his death agony he spoke and told me, as well as his poor gasping faculties could tell me, what had happened. His words were unintelligible to every one except me. And those words formed a clue to the assassin's identity. By his bedside I swore to avenge him. Never would I rest until my oath was carried out. As you know, after that I became ill and went away. And, oh, the shame of it, during those months of rest and illness I forgot Leslie Grey, I forgot my vow. I forgot everything that claimed my duty. Think of it--the shame, the shallow heartlessness, the fickle nature which is mine. I, who had loved him as I believed no girl had ever loved, had forgotten him as though he had never come into my life."
Iredale nodded comprehensively as the girl paused.
"Then you came into my life," Prudence went on. Her face was turned towards the window now, outside of which she saw the tongues of lightning playing across the sky. "Time went on, and slowly something crept into my heart which made me realize my shortcomings. Gradually my conduct was revealed to me in its true colours, and I saw myself as I really was--a heartless, worthless creature, so despicable, even to myself, as to make me shudder when I contemplated the future. Let me be honest now, at least. I knew that I loved you, George, that is"--bitterly--"as far as I was capable of love; but what sort of affection was mine to give to anybody? I could not trust myself--I despised myself. My conscience cried out. Leslie's unavenged death still remained. My vow was still unfulfilled. Knowing this, how could I believe in this new love which had come to me? No, I could not. And it was then that I saw what I must do. Before I could ever dream of love I must redeem the pledge I made at Leslie's deathbed. That alone could restore my faith in myself. I know that it is almost impossible to convey to you all that I have thought upon the matter; but, believe me, I can never marry while Leslie remains unavenged."
Tears stood in the girl's eyes as she finished up her curiously twisted self-accusations. And the sincerity of her words was not to be doubted for a moment. Iredale had listened wonderingly, and he marvelled to himself at the wonders of perspective in a woman's mind.
"And you are prepared to undertake the matter--alone?"
"Mother is helping me--it costs money."
"Just so. But would not a man's help be of greater importance than your mother's? Don't you think that your husband's assistance might help you far more? That it might be able to lighten the burden of this self-imposed labour. Tut, tut, child. Because of your vow it should not deter you from marriage, especially when your husband is not only ready, but most willing to assist you in clearing up the mystery, and avenging Leslie Grey. As regards the quality"--with a quiet smile--"of your regard, well, come, you love me, little girl, on your own confession, and if you have no graver scruples than you have offered, then you must--marry me."
Iredale leant forward and took the girl's two hands in his. This time she made no resistance. She allowed them to rest in his broad palms, and, in spite of all her protests, felt ineffably happy.
At last she drew them away and shook her head weakly.
"No, it is no good, George. You must not be burdened with my undertaking. I cannot consent to such a thing. It is only your generosity and kindness which make you look at the matter so lightly. You would regret your decision later on, and then----No, mother and I will see the matter through. We have already secured the services of the smartest detective in Winnipeg, and he is working upon the only clue we possess."
"But I insist," said Iredale, with a smile which made his plain features almost handsome. "And, Prue, I am going to tell your mother that you have engaged yourself to me, and that I am a new recruit, fortune as well, in the work. No--" holding up his hand as the girl was about to protest again--"no objections, sweetheart. And, before we go further, tell me of this clue."
Prudence smiled happily. She had done her duty; she had laid bare her heart to this man. She had spared herself in no way. She had let him see, she told herself, the sort of girl she was. He still cared for her; he still wished to marry her. She bowed her will to his quiet decision.
"It is not much to go upon, but, as Deane, that is the detective, says, it is a decided clue."
She rose from her seat and walked over to a small work-table. At that moment the house shook to its very foundations with a dreadful crash of thunder. Neche, who had moved with her, leapt fiercely at the window as though flying at some invisible enemy. The girl called him to her side, then she stood trembling. Flash after flash of lightning blazed in the heavens, and she covered her eyes with her hands, whilst the thunder seemed as though it would rend the earth from end to end. Iredale was at her side in an instant, and his arm was about her, and he drew her head upon his shoulder. Instantly her nerve was restored, and, as the noise passed, she quietly released herself. Then, stooping, she opened the drawer of the table and produced a torn copy of the Winnipeg
Free Press. She held out the paper and pointed to the personal column.
"See," she said, with her index finger upon the second line of the column. "'Yellow booming--slump in Grey.' Those who are responsible for that message, whatever it may mean, are also responsible for Leslie's death."
Iredale's eyes were fixed with a terrible fascination upon the print. A breath escaped him which sounded almost like a gasp. His hands clenched at his sides, and he stood like one turned into stone.
"How--how do you know this?" he asked, in a tense, hoarse voice.
"Leslie said so with his last dying breath."
There came no answering word to the girl's statement. Iredale did not move. His eyes were still upon the paper. The silence of death reigned in the room. Even the storm seemed suddenly to have ceased; only was there the incessant swish of the torrential rain outside.
"That is the clue poor Leslie gave me."
"Ah!"
"What do you think?"
"You must give me time to think."
Iredale's mouth was parched. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. For the moment he could scarcely realize his position. An overwhelming horror was upon him. Suddenly he turned.
"What is the date of that paper?"
"A few days before Leslie's death. But this notice has appeared many times since--which will make our task the easier."
"Yes, it will make our task the easier."
Another pause, which was protracted until the silence could almost be felt. Then Prudence spoke.
"You will stay to tea?"
Iredale pulled himself together.
"No, I think not. The storm has passed, the rain is ceasing. I had better hurry back home. It will come back on us--the storm, I mean."
The girl looked out of the window.
"Yes, I think it will. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Hervey went over to see you this afternoon."
Iredale's eyes turned sharply upon the girl.
"Ah, yes, I will go at once. I will call to-morrow and see Mrs. Malling. Good-bye."
He turned away and abruptly left the room. Prudence looked after him. She saw him pass out; she saw him go out by the front door and hurry down the little path which bisected the front garden. She saw him go round to the stables, and he seemed not to heed the rain which was still falling lightly. But it was not until she saw him riding away down the trail that she realized the suddenness of his departure and the fact that he hadn't even attempted to kiss her.
Iredale's horse received little consideration at its master's hands on that homeward journey. The animal was ridden almost at racing pace over the long ten miles of country. And all the way home the words the girl had spoken were running in his ears with maddening insistence--
"And when we find the author of those words we find his murderer."
She had virtually accused him of murder. For he alone was the author of those words in the paper. Truly his sins were finding him out. _