“Do you know who she is?”
Plegg nodded. “She is the one I was talking about.”
“I know it. And the hound who brought her here? I believe you didn’t mention his name.”
“It was Hudson—no, that isn’t quite it—Judson; Thomas Judson.”
To the astonishment of the reticent, self-contained first assistant, David Vallory lifted his clenched hands to the stars and swore savagely. But as Plegg had respected his chief’s former silence, so now he respected the wrathful outburst. Farther along, when they were crossing the tracks in the material yard, David offered niggard explanation.
“I knew the woman, back home, Plegg; I grew up with her. If ever a man needed killing, Tom Judson is that man.”
“They were not married?” said Plegg.
“I have no reason to believe that they were. But that doesn’t excuse Judson.”
“Of course not; it makes it worse—if he was the original sinner.”
“He was,” said David; “but he was not the only one.” And with that he shut his mouth like a trap and did not open it again until they reached the steps of their bunk car. Then he said shortly: “I am going up to Brady’s Cut. You needn’t leave the lamp burning for me when you turn in; I don’t know when I’ll get back.”