"Here are marks of the spurs," called his wife. "Mary never uses these terrible things."
She pointed to red dabs along the flank.
Passing about the horse Rob discovered a bloody mark on Bobs' white hip that aroused a panic in his own breast. Beneath the smear of blood there was no wound. His wife detected what he was looking at.
"That cannot be from the spurs," she cried in a stricken voice. "Mary has met with an accident, that she made a wild effort to escape."
She sought his eye.
"Listen, Helen!" said he in a low tone, transfixed by her compelling glance. "Do not jump to wild conclusions and believe all I say. You may never forgive me. You must believe me. Mary is not hurt. She has gone with Chesley Sykes. They will come back again. He was to intercept her on her way from school. It was all arranged. I gave my consent and Hank Foyle was to help him out. He will marry our girl."
His confession had come in a slow, passionless voice. As the truth dawned upon her the blood receded from her face, leaving her white and haggard. Old age seemed to have fallen magically upon her. Her lips moved as if to speak, but no sound issued forth. She reeled as if struck. Rob threw his arms about her. At his touch she stood erect and rigid. Thrusting him gently from her, she turned away with a low moan.
With bowed head he led Bobs to the stable and went slowly, dazedly into the house. All within was quiet. The stillness troubled him. His wife had secluded herself. He called her name but no answer came back. Making a swift search he found her at length in Mary's room. She knelt before the bed fondling some trinkets she had spread out upon the counterpane. Her eyes were fixed upon a tiny photograph. It was a likeness of Mary when a babe.
"Ah, poor little baby!" she whispered. "They have broken your dear little heart."
As Rob watched the stricken creature an exquisite pain stabbed his own soul. Walking over to her he threw his great arms about her.