He was silent, and in his deep-set eyes she read the resolve he had made.
“That is an obstacle that soon can be vanquished. I am a good spender, and I will soon make way with all I have. I am looking for a good investment. Mr. Kingdon or Jo or some one told me Westcott’s was for sale. You see, we might run it fifty-fifty. I could buy it and you run it.”
“I can’t, Pen,” he said desperately.
She made no reply.
The car whipped round the curves. She was watching the long efficient hands gripping the wheel. Then she stole a glance at his grim, thrust-forward profile. She felt that something must be done and she was a believer in the power of action over words.
She scanned the side of the road keenly for a way, and when she recognized the memorable little clump of trees, she spoke in plaintive tone.
“Aren’t we going to stop at all, Mr. Sheriff Man?”
Instinctively he stopped the car.
She climbed out and went toward the trees. As in a dream he mechanically followed her.
“Do you remember our camping place that night?” she asked.