"Eustace? No, only since I've been in the branch—about three weeks."
"I should have judged you had known her for years."
"I have, but I have only known her husband since I have been here."
"Knew her before she was married?"
"That is so."
"Then tell me, why did she want to marry that rat? I've only seen him once, but that was more than enough. Smoke! Women are regular conundrums. There's that one, as true and big-hearted a creature as ever breathed—look at the pluck she showed to-night—and yet she goes and throws herself away on a miserable crawler who can't even respect the trust his employers placed in him. What does it mean to her? Just think of it—the wife of a common thief, worse than a common thief to my mind. What'll become of her? He'll be caught and sent to gaol for years. What's she going to do then? It's a pity someone doesn't shoot him—it would save her from degradation."
The buggy had vanished in the dusk. He turned to his companion. The dim light from the hut fell full on Harding's face. The doctor whistled.
"Hope I haven't said too much, old chap. I forgot. If you've known her for years—well, you know what I mean, don't you? I must get in to my patient. You'll look after the old man? I've given him a draught that'll keep him asleep. But call me if you want me."
He went into the next hut where Durham lay. Harding stood where he left him, staring away into the night, in the direction the buggy had gone. The click-clock of the trotting horses came in a gradually diminishing clearness, beating time to the refrain which was running in his mind, the refrain of the doctor's words.
If Eustace were captured there was little doubt what the sequence would be. A long sentence and his wife branded with the stain of his guilt. Better if he were dead—better if he were killed, rather than that destiny should overtake her.