“You were harsh,” assented Gertrude. “I have begun to realize it since we came to Canada—one sees things differently here. But, in a sense, I think you were not to be blamed; you acted in the belief that you were right.”
She had seldom ventured to address him with so much candor and she was surprised at his calmness.
“Yes,” he said, “it is some relief to remember that; but I was wrong.”
“Then shouldn’t it make you more careful not to fall into a similar error again? You have a fixed idea in your mind and the way you dwell on it is breaking you down; seeing you suffer is wearing me. Can’t you believe that there is room for doubt?”
“I wish I could,” he said with some gentleness, recognizing the anxious appeal in her voice. “But I imagined you were as convinced as I am of Prescott’s guilt.”
“Oh,” she replied miserably, “I believed I was; but I don’t know what to think!”
He noticed the distress in her face with uncomprehending sympathy. He was fond of her, in his stern, reserved fashion, and knew she must deeply feel the loss of her brother.
“As soon as he saw he was suspected, Prescott ran away,” he continued. “That must count against him. If he had had any motive except the wish to escape, he would have mentioned it.”
Gertrude sat silent, tormented by confused emotions. Prescott had told her he was going to hunt for Cyril, and until she had seen his devotion to Muriel she had felt that she must believe in him; then her mind had been filled with jealousy and doubt. She thought she hated him; after all, he might be guilty. It was not her part to speak in his defense; though she felt she was acting treacherously, she could not stand up for him.
“It is possible that the police were wrong about Cyril,” she said at length.