"Oh, Mr. Jardine," cried Ruth with the cadence of discovery, and rising to her feet, "you think that this man was the criminal—that it was a case of jealousy."
"No—no—that is precisely the impression I do not wish to give," Jardine protested. "I am sure I do not know, and I have no right to accuse or suspect anyone."
"Well, I know," declared Ruth recklessly; "the whole matter is as plain as a pike-staff. I saw a perfect inferno of wrath in his eyes when I said that the manager was in love with that beautiful mountain girl. And when we were photographing her I noticed that she looked at Mr. Lloyd with adoring eyes. He has taken her away from her mountain lover, and these primitive people have primitive reprisals. Mr. Lloyd has paid the penalty for his easy fascinations."
"Ruth, you must not run on so," Mrs. Laniston admonished her, after having listened with interest to the end of the cogent speculations. "For heaven's sake, how ill Lucia is looking," she broke off suddenly. "You are tired, Lucia; you need rest, my dear, after all these excitements. Come—we must say good-night." She rose rather wearily herself, and stood for a moment while the others reluctantly came to a standing posture and gathered themselves together in a group.
"It is really quite necessary that we should not put mere suspicions into words—very unpleasant consequences might ensue," Jardine ventured. He noted in the mirror over the mantelpiece how anxious, and patient, and sharpened was his face. He had already felt that his dignity had never been so seriously compromised as in the events of the day, but this possibility was of far more importance.
"You are very right, Mr. Jardine," Mrs. Laniston assented. Then turning to Ruth with an admonitory air, "Really, I think that we have had quite enough of undesirable publicity and sensation. You might presently find yourself swearing to your fancies in court. You must heed Mr. Jardine's very sensible warnings, for which I at least am much obliged. [Ruth wheeled about and made him a pretty little mirthful bow of smiling acknowledgments.] You might actually swear a man's liberty away with your foolish impressions. This is a serious matter and you must rein your tongue."
"I am mute; I am mute," Ruth declared gaily, "and here is Lucia with not even a word to throw to—to Wick-Zoo."
"I can say good-night at least—and thank you very much, Mr. Jardine," Lucia remarked languidly. She was as pale, she seemed as fragile as the lace she wore. He accompanied them along the verandah to the foot of the staircase, and as their white draperies rustled up the flight into the shadowy dimness of the upper story he turned away with a practical anxious solicitude, characteristic of a husband or father rather than a lover, wondering if Mrs. Laniston realised the seriousness of a nervous shock, and if it would have been too intrusive to suggest calling in a physician to prescribe. This trend of thought led to the alternative of a stimulant rather than a drug. A glass of wine could do no harm, and he hurried to the office with the intention of sending up a bottle of the best that the town afforded with a plate of wafers or crackers of some delicate sort.
The duck-like clerk dashed his hopes with a single quack. "Dry town, Mr. Jardine," he reminded the guest jocosely.
Jardine remembered his brandy flask. He had left it, well filled, at New Helvetia.