“Is there anything that might be useful they have neglected doing?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ll allow that they’ve worked through the muskeg and the bluffs pretty thoroughly; but do you know if they’ve made a good search round Prescott’s house?”
“No,” said Gertrude eagerly; “I can’t tell you that. But why should they look there?”
Wandle considered. It would be awkward if she mentioned that she had had a hint from him, but he did not think this would happen. There was a greater probability of her acting as if the idea had originated with her. He let the team stop and looked at her impressively.
“It strikes me as quite a likely place. I’ve heard of people hiding things they wanted to get rid of in a bluff. You put it to your father and see how the notion strikes him.”
“I’ll think of it,” Gertrude replied coldly; but Wandle knew that she would do as he had suggested.
He said nothing further until they had crossed another rise or two, when he stopped and pointed to a bluff not far away.
“When you make those trees you’ll strike the trail and it’s pretty well beaten. It will take you straight in to Leslie’s.”
Gertrude thanked him and drove on. It was getting dark, and a bitter wind swept the waste, but at first she was scarcely conscious of the cold, for her thoughts were busy. She felt that she had done wrong in allowing the man to make the suggestion. Somehow it seemed to involve her in a plot against Prescott; but of late she had tried to convince herself of his guilt. After all, it was her duty to have the fullest investigation made and the fellow had spoken in a significant manner. One could imagine that he knew more than he had said.
Darkness closed in on the empty plain, the wind stung her face, the loneliness grew intense, and she began to shiver in a mood of black depression. The mystery of her brother’s disappearance filled her with keen anxiety; now she could no longer believe Prescott’s assurance that he was not dead. A little while ago she had trusted him and her cold nature had suddenly expanded in the warmth of love, but the transforming glow had suddenly died out, leaving her crushed, humiliated, and very bitter. Even if her fears about Cyril proved unfounded, she had nothing to look forward to except a life that had grown meaningless and dreary; the brief passion she had yielded to would never be stirred again. She was growing hard and cruel; her keenest desire was to punish the man who had, as she thought of it, deceived her.