“Well, it’s pretty hard sometimes to know who a woman does care for,” said Scott, candidly. “But if she did, she must have got over it. Or maybe she got tired of the singing business and took Conrad in a fit of the blues. I’ve known ’em to do that.”
“Men, I suppose, never marry for reasons of that sort!”
“Men? Lord, yes, men’ll do anything—most of ’em,” grinned Scott, cheerfully. “We’re a rum lot. Anyhow, Mrs. Conrad married her Englishman and came over to the coffee plantation with him. I guess they had some trouble like everybody else has had these last few years, but they managed to weather it. Then, about two years ago, they went on a hunting trip, up in the mountains, just the two of them and a Mexican boy. While they were there, Conrad shot himself while he was cleaning his gun.”
“Oh!”
“It was hopeless from the first and she knew it, but she stayed alone with him and sent the boy back to the ranch for a doctor. He died while they were there alone.”
Polly’s eyes had tears in them. She was staring wistfully at the mountains. “I’m trying to think what it would mean—being up there, alone, with someone you loved who was dying,” she said at last. “No wonder little things don’t bother a woman who’s been through a thing like that.”
“Yes, it’s those things that make character, I guess,” said Scott, thoughtfully. “Or break it.”
“Hasn’t Mr. Hard ever been down there to see her?”
“No, there’s a proud streak in Hard—or maybe he’s got over his feeling for her. He never would let her know he was in the country. I rather guess Herrick planned this.”
“I wonder? Oh, what is it? What do you see?” she cried, as she noticed that Scott’s attention was no longer on her, but was fastened upon the dark foothills which rose between them and the mountains.