“Dargin wants to marry you?” said Plegg quickly.
The woman’s hard black eyes grew suddenly tender. “’Tis not all bad he is, Mr. Plegg. Show me the man like him that would do what he’s done.”
Plegg had never faced a problem requiring swifter or more skilful handling. In the very nature of it he had to take much for granted; to assume the values of the unknown quantities where he could not demonstrate them.
“You knew Vallory before you came here, didn’t you?” he asked.
Her eyes fell. “I grew up with him—in Middleboro.”
Plegg smiled. It was easier now.
“I’m not going to ask you why you refused to talk with him the other night; we’ll let that go. I’m going to leave this thing with you, Judith. David Vallory stands to get a knife in the back. Jim Lushing will do the stabbing, but it will be Dargin who will hand him the knife. Your woman’s heart will tell you what to do, and how to do it.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I can’t—I can’t!” she shuddered. “Himself would kill me, and I’d not be blaming him—after what he’s done for me in this place. Think of what you’d be asking me to do—to put the double-cross on the one man who would be caring anything for me!”
Plegg caught his breath and took his last long leap in the dark.
“Dargin is Dargin,” he said, speaking slowly, “but—you love David Vallory, Judith. That’s all I had to say; good-night.” And he opened the door and vanished.