“They told me that Clay shot—killed—a man yesterday. Is it true?” She cast a fearing look at the bed where the children lay.
“The damned fools!”
“Then it’s true!” She covered her face with her hands, the money in them. Then she took the hands away and looked at the money in them, loathingly. “Do you think Clay—”
“No!” he said shortly, anticipating. “That couldn’t be. For the man Clay killed had this money on him. Clay accused him of picking his pocket. Clay gave the bartender in the Plaza the number of each bill before he saw them after taking the bills out of the pickpocket’s clothing. So it can’t be as you feared.”
She murmured incoherently and pressed both hands to her breast. He laughed and walked to the door.
“Well, you need it, you and the kiddies. I’m glad to have been of some service to you. Tell Clay he owes me something for cartage. If there is anything I can do for you and Clay and the kiddies I’d be only too glad.”
“Nothing—now,” said the woman, gratitude shining from her eyes, mingling with a worried gleam. “Oh!” she added, passionately; “if Clay was only different! Can’t you help him to be strong, Mr. Trevison? Like you? Can’t you be with him more, to try to keep him straight for the sake of the children?”
“Clay’s odd, lately,” Trevison frowned. “He seems to have changed a lot. I’ll do what I can, of course.” He stepped out of the door and then looked back, calling: “I’ll put Clay’s pony away. Good night.” And the darkness closed around him.
Over at Blakeley’s ranch, J. C. Benham had just finished an inspection of the interior and had sank into the depths of a comfortable chair facing his daughter. Blakeley and his wife had retired, the deal that would place the ranch in possession of Benham having been closed. J. C. gazed critically at his daughter.