Probably it was more his repetition of that "Mrs. Caswell" than his declaration of purpose that suddenly unnerved her. It was such convincing indication that her denials had not been believed. She sank into a chair that stood by the front window and buried her face in her hands. She looked so hopeless that Seymour's heart was wrung with pity for her. His hunch had been right, but there was no need now to press it unfeelingly. She should have all the time she needed for sobbing readjustment.
"How come you to think you know so much about him—about us?" she asked presently without looking up.
"I know, ma'am. I am the real Russell Seymour—the sergeant whose uniform he wore."
His mask was off. He had been more frank than at first he intended to be, but, in all circumstances, he considered the temporary secret of his identity safe with her.
Bart's widow started up in her chair. "Here so soon!" she exclaimed.
"Not soon enough, though, I'm sorry to say. If the Force had planted a detachment here with the first Chinook, probably your husband would not have been tempted to hold up the B.C.X."
Mrs. Caswell groaned in her anguish. "You know—about—about that, too?"
"Naturally. How else would he get possession of my uniform? Tell me, madam; what did he expect to gather in when he held up the baggage stage? It's a cinch that he couldn't have known that my clothes were in transit."
But the little woman was not persuaded to answer at once. Seymour had to show her his official shield, which he had taken from its place of concealment in his trail pack when he stabled the horses before the inquest. He went to some pains, also, to show her that although she was an accessory after the crime, no charge would be placed against her if she helped in unraveling the latest murder.
He pointed out that, in view of the stolen uniform in which Bart had been killed, she could not hope to prevent the fatal stage robbery from being laid to him.