“Yes—rather,” said Corrigan, dryly. “You didn’t hear him walking about during the night?”
“No.”
“You’re rather a heavy sleeper, eh? There is only a thin board partition between this building and the courthouse.”
“He must have left after daylight. Of course, any noise he might have made after that I wouldn’t have noticed.”
“No, of course not,” said Corrigan, passionlessly. “Well—he’s gone.” He seemed to have dismissed the matter from his mind and Braman sighed with relief. But he watched Corrigan narrowly during the remainder of the time he stayed in the office, and when he went out, Braman shook a vindictive fist at his back.
“Worry, damn you!” he sneered. “I don’t know what was in Judge Lindman’s mind, but I hope he never comes back! That will help to repay you for that knockdown!”
Corrigan went over to the Castle and ate supper. He was preoccupied and deliberate, for he was trying to weave a complete fabric out of the threads of Braman’s visits to Hester Harvey; Hester’s ride westward, and Judge Lindman’s abrupt departure. He had a feeling that they were in some way connected.
At a little after seven he finished his meal, went upstairs and knocked at the door of Hester Harvey’s room. He stepped inside when she opened the door, and stood, both hands in the pockets of his trousers, looking at her with a smile of repressed malignance.
“Nice night for a ride, wasn’t it?” he said, his lips parting a very little to allow the words to filter through.
The woman flashed a quick, inquiring look at him, saw the passion in his eyes, the gleam of malevolent antagonism, and she set herself against it. For her talk with Trevison last night had convinced her of the futility of hope. She had gone out of his life as a commonplace incident slips into the oblivion of yesteryear. Worse—he had refused to recall it. It hurt her, this knowledge—his rebuff. It had aroused cold, wanton passions in her—she had become a woman who did not care. She met Corrigan’s gaze with a look of defiant mockery.