The mare rushed down into a wide hollow. A culvert bridged a reedy slough. The affrighted beast raced across it. The stream of the animal world swept on about her. She breasted the steep ascent opposite, and Prudence was forced to draw rein. She dared not allow the horse to race up such an incline, even though the fire were within a quarter of a mile of her; she would have been mad to exhaust the faithful creature, which was now her only hope. Even the poor forest creatures, mad as they were with terror, slackened their gait.

At length the hilltop was gained, and a long descent confronted them. Kitty showed no signs of exhaustion yet, and faced her work amidst the rush of refugees with all her original zest. Down into the valley they tore, for the worst of all perils was in pursuit.

The valley stretched away far into the distance; ahead, here, in this hollow, the air was clearer. The hill had shut off the fog of smoke for the moment The refugees now had a smooth run, and a faint glimmer of hope gladdened the heart of the girl.

Without slackening her speed, she looked back at the hill, fearing to see the ruthless flames dart up over the path which her mare’s feet had so recently trodden. But the flames had not yet reached the brow, and she sighed her satisfaction. The smoke was pouring over the tree-tops, and, circling and rolling in a tangled mass, was creeping down in her wake, but as yet there were no flames. She looked this way and that at the dark green of the endless woods, the gracious fields of bending pines. She thought of the beauty which must so soon pass away, leaving behind it only the charred skeletons, the barren, leafless trunks, which for years would remain to mark the cruel path of flame.

Suddenly the roar, which had partly died away into a vague distant murmur beyond the hill, burst out again with redoubled fury. Again she looked round, and the meaning was made plain to her. She saw the yellow fringe of flame as it came dancing, chaotic, a tattered ribbon of light upon the brow of the hill; she saw the dense pall of smoke hovering high above it like the threat of some dreadful doom. The black of the forest upon the summit remained for a second, then over swept the red-gold fire, absorbing all, devouring all, in an almost torrential rush down to the woods below.

And now she beheld a sea of living fire as the hills blazed before her eyes. It was as though the whole place had been lit at one touch. The sea rolled on with incredible swiftness, as the tongues of flame licked up the inflammable objects they encountered. The efforts of her mare became puerile in comparison with the fearful pace of the flames. How could she hope to outstrip such awful speed?

On, on raced the mare, and on came the molten torrent. Now the heat was intolerable. The girl leant limply over her faithful horse’s neck; she was dizzy and confused. Every blast of the wind burnt her more fiercely as the fire drew nearer. She felt how utterly hopeless were her horse’s efforts.

The mare faltered in her stride; it was her first trip. The girl shrieked wildly. She screamed at the top of her voice like one demented. Her nerves were failing, and hysteria gripped her. Kitty redoubled her efforts. The fear of the fire was aggravated by the girl’s wild cries, and she stretched herself as she had never done before.

Now it seemed as though they were racing in the heart of a furnace. The whole country was in flames, and the roar and crashing of falling timber was incessant, and the yellow glow was everywhere–even ahead.

Blinded, dazed, the girl was borne on by the faithful Kitty. She no longer thought of what was so near behind her. What little reason was left to her she centred upon keeping her seat in the saddle. An awful faintness was upon her, and everything about her seemed distant.

Kitty alone fought out the battle of that ride; her mistress was beyond all but keeping upon the faithful animal’s back. Had she been less exhausted, the girl would have seen what the mare saw. She would have seen the broad stream of the Rosy river ahead, and less than a quarter of a mile away. But she saw nothing; she felt nothing; she cared for nothing but her hold upon the saddle. Thus it was that when she came to the riverside, and the mare plunged from the steep bank into the deep, quick-flowing stream, she knew not what had happened, but, with a strange tenacity, she held to the pummels of her saddle, while her loyal friend breasted the waters.

How they got out of the river Prudence never knew, nor did she fully realize all that had happened when at last the horse and rider again stood on firm ground. And the tough little broncho had covered another mile or more before the girl awoke to the fact that they were now in an open prairie country, and skirting the brink of the great southern muskeg. Then it all came back to her, and, as Kitty kept steadily on, she looked fearfully about her. She saw away in the distance the awful pall, the lurid gleam of the flames; and a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving went up from that lonely trail for the merciful escape which had been hers. The girl leant over her mare’s shoulder and caressed the foaming neck.

“Good Kitty, faithful little mare,” she exclaimed emotionally. Then she looked ahead and she remembered all. “But on, girl, on. There is more to do yet.”

The telegraph operator at Damside was closing up his little shack. He had just disconnected his instrument and was standing in his doorway gazing out across the prairie to the east, watching the vast clouds of smoke belching from the direction of the woods. All about him was a heavy haze, and a nasty taste of smoke was in his mouth. He looked across to the only other buildings which formed the city of Damside, the grain elevator and the railway siding buildings. His own hut was close beside the latter. The men were leaving their work. Then presently he looked back in the direction of the distant fire.

“’Tain’t the prairie,” he muttered. “Too thick. Guess the woods are blazin’. That’s beyond the Rosy. Can’t cross there, so I reckon there’s no danger to us. The air do stink here; guess I’ll go and git my hand-car and vamoose.”

He turned back to the room and put on his hat. Just as he left his doorway to pass over to where his hand-car was standing on the railway track, he brought up to a halt A horse and rider were racing up the trail towards him.

“Hullo, what’s this?” he exclaimed sharply. “Maybe it is the prairie.”

Prudence drew rein beside him. She had seen her man, and she knew that she was in time. Her joy was written in her face.

“My, but I’ve had a time,” she exclaimed, as she slid down from her saddle. “I thought that fire had got me. Call up Winnipeg, please, Mr. Frances.”

“Why, Miss Mailing, have you ridden through that?” asked the operator, pointing to the distant smoke.

“Not through it, but with it distinctly hot upon my heels–or rather my mare’s,” the girl laughed. “But I want you to send a message for me. It isn’t too late for Winnipeg?”

“Late, bless you, no. But what is it? Prairie or forest?”

“Forest,” replied the girl shortly. “Where’s a form?”

They passed into the hut. Prudence proceeded to write out her message while the man connected up Winnipeg and carried on a short conversation.

“Bad fire,” he said.

“Very.”

Prudence began to write.

“Just where?”

“Owl Hoot.”

“River’ll stop it”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Prudence went on writing.

“Iredale’s ranch burnt out?”

The girl started.

“Don’t know.”

“Must be.”

“Oh!” Then: “Here you are; and do you mind if I wait for an answer?”

“Pleasure.” And the man read the message–

“To Hervey Malling, Northern Union Hotel,

Winnipeg.

“Return at once. Money awaiting you. Willing to pay the price on your arrival. Do not fail to return at once. The other matter can rest.

“Prudence.”

The operator tapped away at the instrument.

Hervey was sitting in the Northern Union Hotel smoking-room. He was talking to a burly man, with a red face and a shock of ginger-grey hair. This was the proprietor of the hotel.

“How long can you give me? I can settle everything by this day month. The harvesting is just finished. I only need time to haul the grain to the elevator. Will that satisfy you?”

The big man shrugged.

“You’ve put me off so often, Mr. Malling. It’s not business, and you know it,” he replied gutturally. “Will you give me an order on–your crop?”

He looked squarely into the other’s face. Hervey hesitated. He knew that he could not do this, and yet he was sorely pressed for money. However, he made up his mind to take the risk. He thought his mother would not go back on him.

“Very well.”

He turned as the bell-boy approached.

“Telegram for you, sir; ‘expressed.’”

Hervey took the envelope and tore it open. He read his sister’s message, and a world of relief and triumph lit up his face.

“Good,” he muttered. Then he passed it to his companion. “Read that. Do you still need a mortgage? I shall set out to-night.”

The hotel proprietor read the message, and a satisfied smile spread over his face. It did not do for him to press his customers too hard. But still he was a business man. He, too, felt relieved.

“This relates to–?”

“An ouylying farm of mine which I have now sold.”

“Your promise will be sufficient, Mr. Malling. I thought we should find an amicable settlement for our difficulty. You start to-night?”

“Yes.”

CHAPTER XIX
THE AVENGER

Alice was standing at the gate of the little front garden. She was talking to her lover, who had just ridden up from the direction of Owl Hoot. Robb had not dismounted, and his face was very serious as he leant down towards her.

“And I never knew a word about it. It’s a jolly good thing I obtained the delivery of his bunch of cattle when I did, or goodness knows what would have happened. Well, anyhow I’ve lost a nice lump. My client, when he heard about the place being for sale, wanted to buy it for a back country for his beeves to winter in. Just my confounded luck. I knew there was a big fire out this way, but I never thought that Iredale was the unfortunate victim. Now I’ve got to go over to Lakeville to see him–he’s staying there, you know, since he was burnt out. I’ll come back this way, and if Mrs Malling can put me up for the night, I’ll be grateful. My ‘plug’ won’t stand the journey back home. You say Hervey will be along this evening?”

“Yes,” replied the girl Then seriously, “What are you going to do?”

“Interview him. There are things about that dog that want explaining. I take it he can explain ’em. I don’t easily forget. And I owe some one a deal more than I’ve yet been able to pay. P’r’aps that dog’ll help me to discharge my debt. Good-bye, Al; I must be off or I shan’t get back this afternoon.”

Robb turned away in his cheerful, debonair manner and rode off. Troubles sat lightly on his stout heart. His effervescent nature never left him long depressed when Fortune played her freakish tricks upon him. He had lost his commission upon the sale of Iredale’s land, but he had secured the better deal of the cattle. Therefore he was satisfied. But Robb was a very persistent man in his seemingly haphazard fashion. He had promised himself an interview with Hervey about his dog. He had never forgotten or forgiven the disaster in the mountains, and he believed that Hervey would be able to set him on the track of Zachary Smith, whom he felt certain he had seen at the Winnipeg depôt. He hoped so; and, for this purpose, he intended to spend the night at Loon Dyke Farm.

As her lover rode away Alice turned back to the house. The anxious look was still upon her face. She knew that there was serious trouble in the family, and she could see no way of helping these people she loved. Prudence was in sad disgrace with her mother; she had been absent from the farm for two days and had only returned that morning. Mrs. Malling had been distracted with anxiety and grief until the re-appearance of her daughter, and then, when she saw that she was well and that no accident had happened to her, she had flown into such a terrible passion that even Prudence had quailed before her. Never in her life had Alice seen the kindly old soul give way to such rage. No disparaging epithet had been too bad for her child, and she had literally chased the girl from the room in which they had met. Since then Prudence had retreated to her bedroom, and Hephzibah had poured out the vials of her wrath upon an empty kitchen, for even the long-suffering hired girl had feared to face her.

Now, as Alice approached the front door again, she heard the sound of high-pitched voices coming from the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge had come over while the farm-wife’s rage was at its height; and, as Alice listened, she thought that these two old cronies were quarrelling. But her ears quickly told her that her surmise was wrong. She heard Prudence’s voice raised in angry protest, and, instead of entering the house, she discreetly withdrew, passing round to the farmyard instead.

In the kitchen a stormy scene was being enacted.

Prudence was standing just inside the door. Her mother was beside a long table on which were laid out the necessaries for pastry-making. She had faced round upon the girl and stood brandishing a rolling-pin in one hand, and in the other she held a small basket of eggs. Sarah was seated in a high-backed Windsor chair. Her arms were folded across her waist, and her face expressed perplexed alarm. Prudence’s face was aflame; nor were her eyes one whit less angry than her mother’s.

“But I say you shall hear me, mother, whether you like it or not. I’ll not let you or any one else call me the filth which you did this morning for nothing.”

The girl’s voice was hoarse with nervous feeling, Mrs Mailing shook her rolling-pin in a perfect fury.

“Out of this kitchen, you baggage! Out of it, do you hear me? Go an’ get your garments packed up, and out ye go into the street. Child o’ my flesh, are ye? Out of my house, you drab, or maybe I’ll be doing you a harm. I’ll teach the like o’ you to be stoppin’ out o’ nights an’ then to come back wi’out a word of explainin’. I’ll teach you.”

“Give the child a hearing, Hephzibah,” said Sarah, in her soft even tones, as there came a lull in the angry mother’s tirade.

Prudence shot a grateful glance in her preceptor’s direction.

Hephzibah turned swiftly on the peaceful Sarah. But the words of anger which hovered upon her lips remained unspoken. Sarah was an influence in the old lady’s life, and long association was not without effect. She visibly calmed. Prudence saw the change and took advantage of it.

“How could I explain when you wouldn’t listen to me?” she exclaimed resentfully. “Almost before I could say a word you called me all the shameful things you could think of. You drove me to silence when I was willing to tell you all–I was more than willing. You must know all, for the story I have to tell as nearly affects you as it does me. I stayed away from home to save an innocent man from the dreadful charge of murder, and your son from perpetrating the most wanton act of his worthless life.”

A dead silence followed her words. Hephzibah stared at her with an expression of stupefied amazement, while Sarah turned in her chair with a movement which was almost a jolt. The silence was at last broken by the girl’s mother.

“Murder? Hervey?”

And there was no understanding in her tone. Her mind seemed to be groping blindly, and she merely repeated the two words which struck her most forcibly.

“Yes, ‘murder’ and ‘Hervey,’” Prudence retorted. “Hervey has accused George Iredale of the murder of Leslie Grey. Now will you listen to my explanation?”

Hephzibah precipitated herself into a chair. The rolling-pin was returned to its place upon the dough-board with a clatter, and the basket of eggs was set down with a force that sorely jeopardized its contents.

“Yes, girl. Tell me all. Let me hear what devil’s work my Hervey’s been up to. La sakes! an’ George Iredale a murderer!”

And Prudence, her anger evaporated as swiftly as her mother’s, told the two old ladies of her love for Iredale, and how he had asked her to be his wife. She told them how Hervey had come to her with the story of his discovery; how, after attempting to blackmail his victim, he had offered his information to her at a price. How she forced him to prove his case, and had sent him to Winnipeg with that object; how she had been nearly distracted, and eventually made up her mind to go and see Iredale himself; how the accused man had established to her his innocence beyond any doubt, and how he had shown her how impossible it would be for him to use the same means of clearing himself in a court of law. She dwelt upon each point, so that these two, who were so dear to her, should not fail to understand as she understood. Then she told them how, recognizing George’s danger, she had resolved to intercept Hervey, and, with her mother’s assistance, pay him off; and, finally, how she had been overtaken by the forest fire; and how, her mare exhausted, she had arrived at Damside in time to send her message to her brother; and how, failing any other means of returning home, she had taken shelter with the elevator clerk’s wife until her mare had recovered and she was able to resume her journey to the farm.

It was a long story, and the many interruptions of her mother gave the girl much extra trouble in the telling; but with a wonderful patience, born of her anxiety for her lover, she dealt with every little point that puzzled her audience.

When the story was finished its effect was made curiously manifest. The one thing which seemed to have gripped her mother’s intensest feeling was the part her boy had played. Her round eyes had grown stern, and her comely lips had parted as her breath came heavy and fast. At last she burst out with a curious mixture of anger and sorrow in her words.

“Bone of my Silas; flesh of my flesh; an’ to think o’ the like. My Hervey a whelp of hell; a bloodsucker. Oh, that I should ha’ lived to see such a day,” and she rocked herself, with her hand supporting her head and her elbows planted upon her knees. “Oh, them travellin’s in foreign parts. My poor, poor Silas; if he’d jest lived long ’nough to git around our boy with a horsewhip we might ha’ been spared this disgrace. Prudence, girl, I’m that sorry for what I’ve said to you.”

Tears welled in the old eyes, which had now become very wistful, and slowly rolled down the plump cheeks. Suddenly she gathered up her apron and flung it up over her head, and the rocking continued dismally. Prudence came over to her and knelt at her side, caressing her stout figure in sympathy. Sarah sat looking away towards the window with dreamy eyes. The old school-mistress made no comment; she was thinking deeply.

“Don’t cry, mother,” said Prudence, with an ominous catch in her voice. “Whatever Hervey’s faults, he will reap his own punishment. I want you to help me now, dear. I want you to give me the benefit of your experience and your sound, practical sense. I must see this through. I have a wicked brother and an obstinate lover to deal with, and I want you to help me, and tell me what is best to do.”

The apron was removed from Mrs. Malling’s head, and her eyes, red and watery, looked at the girl at her side with a world of love in their depths.

“These two men will be here this afternoon,” the girl went on. “George is coming to tell you his story himself, that you may judge him. He declares that, come what may, he will not rest with this shadow upon him. In justice to us, his friends, and to himself, he must face the consequences of his years of wrongdoing. Hervey will be here for his money. This is the position; and, according to my reckoning, they will arrive at about the same time. I don’t quite know why, but I want to confront Hervey with the man he accuses. Now tell me what you think.”

“I’m thinking you make the third of a pack of fool-heads,” said the farm-wife gently. “George is no murderer, he’s not the killin’ sort. He’s a man, he is. Then why worrit? An’ say, if that boy o’ mine comes along he’ll learn that them Ar’tic goldfields is a cooler place for his likes than his mother’s farm.” The old woman’s choler was rising again with tempestuous suddenness. “Say, he’s worse’n a skunk, and a sight more dangerous than a Greaser. My, but he’ll learn somethin’ from them as can teach him!”

“Yes, mother,” replied the girl, a little impatiently; “but you don’t seem to see the seriousness of what he charges–”

“That I do, miss. Am I wantin’ in understandin’? George is as innocent as an unborn babe, so what’s the odds along o’ Hervey’s accusin’? It don’t amount to a heap o’ corn shucks. That boy ain’t responsible, I tell ye. He’s like to get locked up himself in a luny ’sylum. I’ll give him accusin’!”

“But, mother, that won’t do any good. He must be paid off.”

“An’ so he shall–and so he shall, child. There’s more dollars in this farm than he reckons on, and they’re ready for usin’ when I say the word. If it’s pay that’s needed, he shall be paid, though I ain’t just understandin’ the need.”

Sarah’s voice broke in at this point.

“The child’s right, Hephzibah; there’s money to be spent over this thing, or I’m no judge of human nature. Hervey’s got a strong case, and, from what the story tells us, George is a doomed man if he goes before the court. Innocent he may be–innocent he is, I’ll wager; but if he’s obstinate he’s done for.”

The farm-wife made no reply, but sat gazing wistfully before her.

“Yes, yes,” Prudence said earnestly. “It is just the money–nothing more. We must not let an innocent man suffer. And, ‘Aunt’ Sarah, we must prevail upon George to let us stop Hervey’s mouth. That is our chief difficulty. You will help me–you and mother. You are so clever, ‘Aunt’ Sarah. George will listen to you. Oh, we must–must save him, even against himself.”

Sarah nodded her head sagely; she was deeply affected by all she had heard, but she gave no outward sign.

“Child,” she replied, “we will all do our best–for him–for you; but yours is the tongue that will persuade him best. He loves you, child, and you love him. He will not persist, if you are set against it.”

“I hope it will be as you say,” replied Prudence dubiously. “But when he comes you will let him tell his story in his own way. You will listen patiently to him. Then you can laugh at his determination and bring your arguments to bear. Then we will keep him until Hervey arrives, and we will settle the matter for ever. Oh, mother, I dread what is to come.”

Mrs. Mailing did not seem to be paying much heed, but, as the girl moved away from her side, she spoke. There was no grief, no anger in her voice now. She spoke quite coldly, and Sarah Gurridge looked keenly over at her.

“Yes, girl, we’ll settle this rumpus, and–Hervey.”

Prudence moved towards the door. She turned at her mother’s words.

“I will go up-stairs,” she said. “I want to think.”

She opened the door and nearly fell against the dog Neche, who was standing outside it. There was a fanciful suggestion of the eavesdropper about the creature; his attitude was almost furtive. He moved slowly away, and walked with the girl to the foot of the stairs, where he laid himself down with a complacent grunt. The girl went up to her room.

“This day’s doin’s will be writ on my heart for ever,” said the farm-wife plaintively, as the door closed behind her daughter.

“An’ see you, Hephzibah, and let no eyes read of them, for there will be little credit for anyone in those same doings,” said Sarah solemnly.

Mrs. Malling hugged herself, and again began to rock slowly. But there were no signs of tears in her round, dark eyes. Now and again her lips moved, and occasionally she muttered to herself. Sarah heard the name “Hervey” pass her lips once or twice, and she knew that her old friend had been sorely stricken.

As the time for Iredale’s arrival drew near, Prudence became restless. Her day had been spent in idleness as far as her farm work was concerned. She had chosen the companionship of Alice, and had unburdened her heart to her. But sympathetic and practical as her friend was, she was quite unable to help her.

As four o’clock drew near, however, Alice did the only thing possible. She took herself off for a walk down the Lakeville trail. She felt that it was better for everybody that she should be away while the trouble was on, and, besides, she would meet her lover on his way to the farm, and give him timely warning against making his meditated stay for the night.

At the appointed hour there came the clatter of a pacer’s hoofs at the front gate, and a moment later Prudence led her lover into the parlour. After a few brief words she hurriedly departed to summon her mother and Sarah. There was a significant solemnity in this assembling; nor was it lessened by the smuggler’s manner. Even the wolfish Neche seemed impressed with what was happening, for he clung to the girl’s heels, following her wherever she went, and finally laid down upon the trailing portion of her skirt when she took up her position beside her lover and waited for him to begin.

The opening was a painful one for everybody. Iredale scarcely knew how to face those gentle folk and recount his disgraceful story. He thought of all they had been to him during his long years upon the prairie. He thought of their implicit trust and faith in him. He almost quailed before the steady, honest eyes of the old people. However, he at last forced himself to his task, and plunged into his story with uncompromising bluntness.

“I am accused of murder,” he said, and paused, while a sickly feeling pervaded his stomach.

Mrs. Malling nodded her head. She was too open to remain silent long.

“Of Leslie Grey,” she said at once. “And ye needn’t to tell us nothin’ more, George. We know the yarn you are about to tell us. An’ d’ye think we’re goin’ to believe any addle-pated scalliwag such as my Hervey, agin’ you? Smuggler you may be, but that you’ve sunk to killin’ human flesh not even a minister o’ the Gospel’s goin’ to convince me. Here, I respects the man I give my hand to. Shake me by the hand, George–shake me by the hand.” And the farm-wife rose from her chair and ambled across the room with her hand outstretched.

Iredale clasped it in both of his. And never in his life had he experienced such a burst of thankfulness as he did at that moment. His heart was too full to speak. Prudence smiled gravely as she watched this whole-hearted token of her mother’s loyalty to a friend. Nor was Sarah backward in her expression of goodwill.

“Hephzibah’s right, George, and she speaks for both of us. But there’s work to be done for all that. Hervey’s to be dealt with.”

“To be bribed,” said Hephzibah uncompromisingly, as she returned to her seat.

Iredale shook his head and his face set sternly. Prudence saw the look she feared creep into her lover’s eyes. She opened her lips to protest, but the words remained unspoken. She had heard the rattle of a buckboard outside. The sound died away, and she knew that the vehicle had passed round to the barn. She waited in an agony of suspense for her brother’s appearance.

“You needn’t to shake your head,” went on the farm-wife. “This matter’s my concern. It’s my dollars as is goin’ to pay Master Hervey–an’ when he gets ’em may they blister his fingers, I sez.”

Prudence heard a footstep in the hall. The crucial moment had arrived, and her heart palpitated with nervous apprehension. Before Iredale could reply the door was flung open, and Hervey stood in their midst. Instantly every eye was turned upon him. He stood for a moment and looked round. There was a slight unsteadiness in his attitude. His great eyes looked wilder than ever, and they were curiously bloodshot. At least one of the three ladies possessed an observant mind. Sarah saw that the man had been drinking. To her the signs, though slight, were unmistakable. The others did not seem to notice his condition.

“Ah,” he said, with an attempt at pleasantry, “a nice little party. Well, I’ve come for the dibs.”

His eyes lit upon the figure of George Iredale, and he broke off. The next moment he went on angrily–

“What’s that man doing in this house?” he cried, his eyes fairly blazing with sudden rage. “Is the place turned into a refuge for–murderers?”

The man’s fury had set fire to the powder train. His mother was on her feet in a twinkling. Her comfortable body fairly shook in her indignation. Her face was a flaming scarlet, and her round eyes sparkled wickedly.

“And who be you to question the calling of my house, Hervey Malling?” she cried; “since when comes it that you’ve the right to raise your voice against my guests? An’ by what right d’ye dare to accuse an innocent man? Answer me, you imp of Evil,” she demanded. But she gave him no time to speak, and went on, her voice rising to a piercing crescendo. “Spare your wicked tongue, which should be forked by reason of the lies as has fallen from it. Oh, that you should be able to call me ‘mother.’ I’d rather mother the offspring of a rattlesnake than you. What have you done by us all your life but bring sorrow an’ trouble upon those who’ve done all that which in them is to help you? Coward! Traitor! An’ you come now with lies on your tongue to harm an innocent man what’s done you no harm.” She breathed hard. Then her wrath swept on, and the room rang with the piercing pitch of her voice. “You’ve come for your blood-money–your thirty pieces. You villain; if your poor father were alive this day he should lay a raw hide about you till your bones were flayed. Sakes! I’ve a mind to set about you myself. Look at him, the black-heart! Look at him all! Was ever such filth of a man? and him my son. Blood-money! Blood-money! And to think that I’m living to know it.”

She paused. Hervey broke in–

“Silence, you old fool! You don’t know what you’re talking about. That man,” pointing over at Iredale, who sat waiting for an opportunity to interfere, “is the murderer of Leslie Grey. I suppose he has been priming you with blarney and yarns. But I tell you he murdered Grey. I’m not here for any tomfoolery. I got Prudence’s message to say the money was forthcoming. Where is it? Fifteen thousand dollars buys me, and that I want at once. If I have any more yapping I’ll make it twenty thousand.”