“Now,” she observed sharply, “you can go on; it’s about Gregory, I suppose.”
Agatha, who found it very difficult to begin, though she had been well primed by Hastings on the previous evening, sat down in the straw, and looked about her for a moment or two. It was a hot afternoon, dazzlingly bright, and almost breathlessly still. In front of her the dark green wheat rolled waist-high, and beyond it the vast sweep of grass stretched back to the sky-line. Far away a team and a wagon slowly moved across the prairie, but that was the only sign of life, and no sound from the house reached them to break the heavy stillness.
She finally nerved herself to the effort, and spoke earnestly for several minutes before she glanced at Sally. It was evident that Sally had understood all that had been said, for she sat very still with a hard, set face.
“Oh!” Sally exclaimed, “if I’d thought you’d come to tell me this because you were vexed with me, I’d know what to do.”
This was what Agatha had dreaded. It certainly looked as if she had come to triumph over her rival’s humiliation, but Sally made it clear that she acquitted her of that intention.
“Still,” said Sally, “I know that wasn’t the reason, and I’m not mad with—you. It hurts”—she made an abrupt movement—“but I know it’s true.”
She turned to Agatha suddenly. “Why did you do it?”
“I thought you might save Gregory, if I told you.”
“That was all?” Sally looked at her with incredulous eyes.
“No,” answered Agatha simply, “that was only part. It did not seem right that Gregory should go against Wyllard’s wishes, and gamble the Range away on the wheat market.”