"Were you the man who hit the can five times?" she questioned, unable to conceal her eagerness.
She saw a flush slowly mount to his face. Evidently he had said more than he had intended.
"Well, if I am?" he returned, his lips writhing in a sneer. "Him beatin' me shootin' that way don't prove nothin'."
She was now becoming convinced of her cleverness. From Ben's description of the man who had won the shooting match she had been able to lead Ferguson to the admission that he had been the central character in that incident, and now it had transpired that Leviatt was the man he had beaten. This had been the way she had written it in the story. So far the plot that had been born of her imagination had proved to be the story of a real occurrence.
She had counted upon none but imaginary characters,—though she had determined to clothe these with reality through study—but now, she had discovered, she had been the chronicler of a real incident, and two of her characters had been pitted against each other in a contest in which there had been enough bitterness to provide the animus necessary to carry them through succeeding pages, ready and willing to fly at each other's throats. She was not able to conceal her satisfaction over the discovery, and when she looked at Leviatt again she smiled broadly.
"That confession explains a great many things," she said, stooping to recover the page that he had dropped beside her upon the rock.
"Meanin' what?" he questioned, his eyes glittering evilly.
"Meaning that I now know why you are not friendly toward Mr. Ferguson," she returned. "I heard that he beat you in the shooting match," she went on tauntingly, "and then when you insulted him afterwards, he talked very plainly to you."
The moment she had spoken she realized that her words had hurt him, for he paled and his eyes narrowed venomously. But his voice was cold and steady.
"Was Mr. Ferguson tellin' you that?" he inquired, succeeding in placing ironic emphasis upon the prefix.