“Nothing––nothing at all. How should I know what she would do?”
“Then you ought to have kept still an’ held yer tongue,” said Pat.
“But it seems to me as if we’d ought to investigate this thing a little,” ventured Prouty. “We ain’t got anythin’ here but this ’ere young ’ooman’s word for what’s happened. She can tell us how it came about, anyways, seems to me, and we can judge if it sounds sensible and correct like.”
“That’s right,” put in Kilrea. “That’s fair and proper.”
“I am perfectly willing to tell you all I know about it,” asserted Madge, quietly. “I––I came here to see Mr. Ennis on a matter that––that concerns us only. And I had occasion to open my bag. Among the things in it there was a revolver. It fell out of my hands and exploded, and––and the bullet struck him. I––I never knew that he had been shot. He never even told me, and then he hitched the dog to the sleigh and took me 231 over to Mrs. Papineau’s, where I have been staying. And it was she who discovered that he had been injured. She’ll tell you so herself if you go to her. And––and he told her it was an accident, as he would tell you now if––if he wasn’t dying.”
“You’d fixed it up to spend the night at Papineau’s?” asked Mrs. Kilrea, who had hitherto kept somewhat in the background.
“That was the arrangement we had made,” answered the girl. “There was no other place where I could stay. But I’d have gone up there alone if I’d known how badly he was hurt. I’ve stayed with them ever since, of course, for there was no one to take me back. Mr. Papineau hadn’t returned. He was trapping.”
“I don’t see but what she must be tellin’ the truth,” opined Mrs. Kilrea. “There ain’t anything wrong or improper in all this, savin’ a girl handlin’ a revolver, which ain’t wise. We can go over to Papineau’s and make sure it’s just as she says.”
“But there’s one thing ain’t clear,” said Pat Kilrea. “What business did she come on, anyways?”
Madge drew herself up and looked at him calmly.