“Oh, it’s awful, Robin,” she cried. “I can’t bear it. It’s awful!”
“Can’t bear what?” Robin asked.
He had no key to her mood. He couldn’t tell whether her grief was for him or Mark or for herself, or whether this tragedy in which she was involved simply oppressed her beyond endurance. But her grief racked him. He knew no way to comfort her. He could not stay to comfort her. For a moment he thought of explaining that this trouble had arisen simply because Mark Steele was a thief trying to cover his trail. But it was a little late for explanation which did not alter facts. They had never told Ivy the real truth. And Mark was dead. It didn’t matter now.
She withdrew from his arms and began nervously to gather up dishes. Robin watched her for a minute. Some sort of impalpable barrier was between them. Nothing he could say or do would make it any different.
“Well, I got to get organized,” he said and rose. Ivy looked at him once, went on with her work. Old Mayne appeared in the doorway.
“What you aim to do?” he inquired uneasily. “Stand pat, or light out?”
“What you think yourself?” Robin asked. It was an idle question. He knew what he would do. He was only curious to know what Mayne really wanted him to do.
“If it was anybody but Sutherland you might come clear,” Mayne grumbled. “With the Block S pullin’ the strings you’ll get manslaughter sure as blazes.”
“Suppose I stand trial and get a year, or two, or ten?” Robin went on. “Where’ll I be at with you two when I come out?”
Mayne glanced at his daughter, wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. The girl stood silent. Robin looked from one to the other. A faint sardonic smile fluttered about his lips.