They fled down the track, running heavily, for the work had been fast and the tension great, and when they reached the horses and threw themselves into the saddles, Manti was ablaze with light. As they raced away in the darkness a grim smile wreathed Trevison’s face. For though he had not succeeded in this enterprise, he had at least struck a blow—and he had corroborated his previous opinion concerning Judge Lindman’s knowledge of the whereabouts of the original record.
It was three o’clock and the dawn was just breaking when Trevison rode into the Diamond K corral and pulled the saddle from Nigger. Levins had gone home.
Trevison was disappointed. It had been a bold scheme, and well planned, and it would have succeeded had it not been for the presence of the sentries. He had not anticipated that. He laughed grimly, remembering Judge Lindman’s fright. Would the Judge reveal the identity of his early-morning visitor? Trevison thought not, for if the original record were in the safe, and if for any reason the Judge wished to conceal its existence from Corrigan, a hint of the identity of the early-morning visitors—especially of one—might arouse Corrigan’s suspicions.
But what if Corrigan knew of the existence of the original record? There was the presence of the guards to indicate that he did. But there was Judge Lindman’s half-heartedness to disprove that line of reasoning. Also, Trevison was convinced that if Corrigan knew of the existence of the record he would destroy it; it would be dangerous, in the hands of an enemy. But it would be an admirable weapon of self-protection in the hands of a man who had been forced into wrong-doing—in the hands of Judge Lindman, for instance. Trevison opened the door that led to his office, thrilling with a new hope. He lit a match, stepped across the floor and touched the flame to the wick of the kerosene lamp—for it was not yet light enough for him to see plainly in the office—and stood for an instant blinking in its glare. A second later he reeled back against the edge of the desk, his hands gripping it, dumb, amazed, physically sick with a fear that he had suddenly gone insane. For in a big chair in a corner of the room, sleepy-eyed, tired, but looking very becoming in her simple dress with a light cloak over it, the collar turned up, so that it gave her an appearance of attractive negligence, a smile of delighted welcome on her face, was Hester Harvey.
She got up as he stood staring dumfoundedly at her and moved toward him, with an air of artful supplication that brought a gasp out of him—of sheer relief.
“Won’t you welcome me, Trev? I have come very far, to see you.” She held out her hands and went slowly toward him, mutely pleading, her eyes luminous with love—which she did not pretend, for the boy she had known had grown into the promise of his youth—big, magnetic—a figure for any woman to love.
He had been looking at her intently, narrowly, searchingly. He saw what she herself had not seen—the natural changes that ten years had brought to her. He saw other things—that she had not suspected—a certain blasé sophistication; a too bold and artful expression of the eyes—as though she knew their power and the lure of them; the slightly hard curve in the corners of her mouth; a second character lurking around her—indefinite, vague, repelling—the subconscious self, that no artifice can hide—the sin and the shame of deeds unrepented. If there had been a time when he had loved her, its potence could not leap the lapse of years and overcome his repugnance for her kind, and he looked at her coldly, barring her progress with a hand, which caught her two and held them in a grip that made her wince.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in? When did you come?” He fired the questions at her roughly, brutally.
“Why, Trev.” She gulped, her smile fading palely. The conquest was not to be the easy one she had thought—though she really wanted him—more than ever, now that she saw she was in danger of losing him. She explained, earnestly pleading with eyes that had lost their power to charm him.
“I heard you were here—that you were in trouble. I want to help you. I got here night before last—to Manti. Rosalind Benham had written about you to Ruth Gresham—a friend of hers in New York. Ruth Gresham told me. I went directly from Manti to Benham’s ranch. Then I came here—about dusk, last night. There was a man here—your foreman, he said. I explained, and he let me in. Trev—won’t you welcome me?”