Moran shrugged his shoulders.
“Possibly, but there’s no use thinking about that, The trestle is as good as gone.”
“Oh!” said Marie, and sank back in her chair.
It was so complete, so perfect. Jim was beaten. He had worked so hard, so faithfully; had builded such high hopes—to go down in ruin! Jim! And nothing she could do or say would stay the disaster, would postpone it an instant. She shivered, coughed.
“It’s cold. A moment while I get my shawl.”
She stepped into the house. Moran waited, warmed by a feeling of complete satisfaction. She was his; at last she had surrendered. And Ashe was in the hollow of his hand. Zaanan Frame, too, was beaten.
From first to last the thing had been handled efficiently, as an able business man should handle it. He leaned back and lighted a cigar.
For a few moments he puffed contentedly. Marie did not return. Presently he grew impatient. Another few minutes, and he leaped up to tramp the length of the porch.
Still she did not come. He stepped to the door and called:
“Marie! Marie! What’s keeping you all this time?”