"I believe it, Ben.... Do this for me then: find Garvin and bring him to Westmore. It's the place where he'll be safest. Tell him I said so. He'll listen to you when he wouldn't to any one else. And there's no one who can find him in the night as you can. And, Ben, have him come back on Black Betty, if you can, and if you can't—" She paused and thought a moment. "If you can't, get Betty into the club stables during the night.... You're not afraid to do that for me, Ben?"
Ben's growl was sufficient answer.
Her hands dropped. "We'll go then," she said more clearly.
Ben held her back a moment. "Miss Judith, you'll not put this on a Penniman, an' you'll keep Ann's name out of it if you can?"
"No—I'll not accuse a Penniman. The dead can't speak—or suffer—let them bear the blame."
XXXII
THE DEATH-TRAP
Baird was riding slowly back from Westmore to the club. Even if he had been in the mood for rapid riding, he would not have attempted it; it was too dark a night. As it was, he was too much absorbed by his thoughts to hurry his horse. He was thinking of the group of proud people he had left standing guard over their dead. And he was thinking of Ann. Did she know?
The thing was terrible. The news had reached the club before the sunset glow had faded from the sky, brought to Sam by a Westmore negro and transmitted by him to the men who were dining at the club: Edward Westmore had taken his own life—at the Mine Banks. The men had scattered to their homes with the news, and Baird had ridden at once to Westmore.