"For sure. She say police have come. Nobody to help her but only me, an' wan man no good. She afraid dis Mudgett, he spill dose beans. So she say, 'I fix 'im—I shoot him. An' den I shoot myself. Dose police ain't gon' take me and hang me.' An' den she say good-by, an' say no more. Voila tout!"
Dexter and the colonel exchanged a glance of keen significance. "I guess that settles it," said Devreaux soberly.
"No question!" The corporal looked out the window with ruminative eyes. "It's queer how people's minds work under stress," he mused. "This woman had a weapon concealed—she might have waited and taken a chance on getting me. But she must have gone temporarily out of her head. I've seen it hit other prisoners like that—crazed and desperate, like trapped animals. The voice I heard had that sound. She was the nervous, high-strung sort that seem to be able to face anything, and then suddenly go all to pieces. She must have acted on the first mad impulse, without allowing herself time for second thought."
"Mental blow-up!" said the colonel. "Yes, I've seen them that way. In any event we know now what happened. There really was no mystery at all, if we'd had sense enough to put two and two together." He turned to Alison and his iron features relaxed for a moment in a kindly smile. "And I guess that lets you out, my dear," he said.
The girl drew a quivering breath, and blinked hard to keep back the tears. She tried to speak, but her voice seemed to fail her.
"We'll have to make our report," resumed Devreaux, "but you've nothing to fear. When a hard boiled old mounted man like me is ready to accept a chain of facts such as this, you may be sure others will be easily convinced. You'll come off with flying colors. And I don't mind telling you that I'm very glad indeed."
Dexter likewise turned, and for a moment he held the girl under his grave scrutiny. "I don't need to tell you that I too am glad," he said. He faced her in silence for a moment, and his mouth drooped in a smile of weariness and sadness. "I should have known it all from the beginning," he went on in a low voice. "Knowing you, I should have gone on believing in you with blind, unquestioning faith. I did for a while, and then—something happened to remind me that I was a policeman—and I forced myself to look at what I thought was evidence, instead of looking at you. I'm sorry, Alison."
He lingered for a space with yearning glance, and then he drew a harsh breath, turned abruptly and strode out of the cabin.
Leaving the doorway, he moved with heavy, dragging steps, down through the fringe of timber to the edge of the rapids. He found a flat-topped bowlder on the beach where the water ran awash, and sat down to gaze off across the tumbling stream. For a while he sat with his arm on his knee, motionless and listless, listening to the rush of the rapids, his head bent to the soft evening breeze. But presently he stirred, and his hand reached into his tunic pocket. He brought out his pipe, fumbled for a match and struck a light. But as he started to apply the flame to the tobacco, he caught the sound of a quick, light step in the gravel behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a slight figure standing in the shadow. The pipe dropped unheeded to the ground as he stumbled to his feet. "Alison!" he breathed.
"Yes." The figure came forward and sat down on the bowlder.