"It can't be," she stammered. "Yes—yes. And Reimer?"
"They hid him for two weeks, until they brought to terms."
"I remember," she said, passing her hand over her brow. "Reimer's boy was in my school. They missed old Max. They thought he had deserted them. What a horrible thing! And Jeff—my husband——"
"That is what people call Jeff Wray's luck," he said, and then added grimly, "and my misfortune."
"But the law?" she said. "Was there no way in which you could prove the—the——"
"The fraud?" he said brutally. "Oh, yes. The Law! Do you know who impersonates the Law in Mesa City? Pete Mulrennan! He's judge, court, and jury. We had the best lawyer in Denver. But Lawrence Berkely had done his work too well. There's a suit still pending, but we haven't a show. Good God, Camilla! do you mean to say you heard nothing of all this?"
"Nothing," she said. "Nothing. When I heard of the suit and questioned Jeff he—he said it was maliciousness, jealousy, disappointment, and I believed him."
He turned away from her and paced the floor. "He was right. It was all of these. But there was something else——"
"Oh, I know," she broke in. "It was what I am feeling now—the sense of a wrong. But you forget——" She got up and faced him, groping vaguely for an extenuating circumstance. "That sort of thing has been done in the West before. A successful mine is all a matter of luck. Max Reimer's find might have only been a pocket. In that case you would have been the gainer, and Jeff would have lost."
"That's sophistry. I can't blame you for defending your husband. Mines have been leased and bought on theory—with a chance to win, a chance to lose—for the mere love of a gamble. There was no gamble here. The gold ore was there—one had only to look. There never has been anything like it since Cripple Creek. It was mine. Jeff Wray wanted it—so he took it—by force."