Pete sat on the stool drinking in every word, with his eyes fixed full upon the face of the narrator. At times his huge frame trembled with emotion, and a groan escaped his lips. It was only when Mr. Radhurst had finished that he leaped to his feet and gave vent to his pent-up feelings.
"Oh, God!" he cried, shaking his fist in the direction of the saloon. "Let me live long enough, to punish that villain, that devil!—what's his name, did ye say?"
"Pritchen, Bill Pritchen," replied Mr. Radhurst.
"Bill Pritchen, ye scoundrel, ye'll answer fer this, an' to Pete Martin at that!"
He was about to say more when he suddenly stopped, and a look of remorse crossed his face, as he saw Constance lying on the couch so very still. He seemed to read reproach and wonder in her clear eyes.
"Fergive me, lassie!" he cried. "I didn't mean to frighten ye. But I do feel bad, thar's no mistake."
"Don't mind me, Pete," said Constance, "for I am rather unstrung this evening. But there is one thing which has been worrying me much, and I would like to speak about it now."
"Go ahead, then," and Pete once more resumed his seat.
"Father told you the story of that man dying out in the Ibex cabin, and that the letters on the rock are the same as on the empty poke which was found in that chest. It's a wonder Mr. Steadman didn't say something about it."
"He did, lassie. He did."