Cayley’s fingers played with his horse’s mane; his eyes ran over the ground debatingly; then he lifted them suddenly, and said: “Houghton, you are remarkably frank with me; what do you mean by it?”
“I’ll tell you if you will answer me this question: Why have you come here?”
The eyes of both men crossed like swords, played with each other for a moment, and then fixed to absolute determination. Cayley answered doggedly: “I came to see your wife, because I’m not likely ever to see her or you again. I wanted one look of her before I went away. There, I’m open with you.”
“It is well to be open with me,” Houghton replied. He drew Cayley aside to an opening in the trees, where the mountain and the White Bluff road could be seen, and pointed. “That would make a wonderful leap,” he said, “from the top of the hill down to the cliff edge—and over!”
“A dreadful steeplechase,” said Cayley.
Houghton lowered his voice. “Two people have agreed to take that fence.”
Cayley frowned. “What two people?”
“My wife and I.”
“Why?”
“Because there has been a mistake, and to live is misery.”