"Don't worry, it wasn't Greyson," Courtlandt cut in brusquely; his eyes flamed a warning. "It—it was Phil Denbigh."
"Phil Denbigh! You don't mean the man Felice married?"
"Yes—alias Bill Small, the range-rider at the B C."
"And he—a man like that—was one of the gang?"
"No, no! Phil was in it to get information, to give warning. He is entitled to an honorable discharge from his conscience now. His testimony will rid this part of the country of about twenty undesirables, the missing Marks and Schoeffleur among them."
She looked up in dumb incredulity for a moment, then she laughed.
"So—o, the treasure would have been saved anyway without—without——" There was another irrepressible ripple of mirth before she asked, "Has Bruce—has—Mr. Greyson been told?"
Her laughter, her reference to Greyson snapped Courtlandt's self-control, which was already strained to the limit of endurance. Even his lips were white as he caught her by the shoulders.
"I don't know what Greyson has been told, but he'll get it straight from me that you are mine—mine——" With sudden savage ruthlessness he caught her in his arms and kissed her shining hair, her throat, her eyes. He let her go. "Now perhaps you understand it too," he announced huskily.
Jerry shrank as far away from him as the narrow space would allow. The color burned in her cheeks, her eyes blazed.