“Yes, it is a mile this side of the canyon head. What about it?”
“How long is it since you have been up there?” she queried.
Winton stopped to think. “I don't know—a week, possibly.”
“Yet if you had not been coming here every evening, you or Mr. Adams would have found time to go—to watch every possible chance of interference, wouldn't you?”
“Perhaps. That was one of the risks I took, a part of the price-paying I spoke of. If anything had happened, I should still be unrepentant.”
“Something has happened. While you have been taking things for granted, Uncle Somerville has been at work day and night. He has built a track right across yours in that little valley, and he keeps a train of cars or something, filled with armed men, standing there all the time!”
Winton gave a low whistle. Then he laughed mirthlessly.
“You are quite sure of this?” he asked. “There is no possibility of your being mistaken?”
“None at all,” she replied. “And I can only defend myself by saying that I didn't know about it until a few minutes ago. What is to be done? But stop; you needn't tell me. I am not worthy of your confidence.”
“You are; you have just proved it. But there isn't anything to be done. The next thing in order is the exit of one John Winton in disgrace. That spur track and engine means a crossing fight which can be prolonged indefinitely, with due vigilance on the part of Mr. Darrah's mercenaries. I'm smashed, Miss Carteret, thoroughly and permanently. Ah, well, it's only one more fool for love. Hadn't we better go in? You'll take cold standing out here.”