“That’s a comfortable chair you have your hand on. Bring it nearer the stove and let’s try to look at the thing sensibly,” Prescott persuaded. “I’ll confess that I’d have excused your visit, if it could have been avoided, but as you already owe Svendsen and me something, it would be rather forcing matters for you to drive away hungry. That strikes me as about the limit of wrong-headedness, particularly as I’m not suggesting that we should make friends.”
The elder man was possessed by a fixed idea and his prejudices were strong, but he was, nevertheless, a judge of character, and the rancher’s manner impressed him. He took the chair.
“I believe I owe my life to you or your hired man. I find the situation embarrassing.”
“It would be intolerable, if you were not mistaken about another point,” Prescott said calmly. “Now I want your attention. I’m not anxious for your good opinion—I don’t know that I’d take it as a gift, after the way you have persecuted me—but I’ve a pity for you that softens my resentment.”
Jernyngham moved abruptly, but Prescott raised his hand.
“Let me get through! I believe you’re honest; you’re acting from a sense of duty, which is why I tell you that you’re tormenting yourself without a cause. I had no hand in your son’s disappearance, and it’s my firm conviction that he’s alive now and wandering through British Columbia with a mineral prospector.”
“What proof have you of this?”
“None that would satisfy you; nothing but my word, and I give you that solemnly. Make your own inquires among my neighbors whether it’s to be believed.”
For several moments Jernyngham fixed his eyes on him, and his suspicions began to melt away. Truth had rung in Prescott’s voice and it was stamped on his face; no man, he thought, could lie and look as this rancher did. Even the discovery of the brown clothes appeared less damaging.
“Then there’s much to be explained,” he said slowly.