Petrie, who was constantly watching the effect of his every word on the man who more and more confused and interested him, slowly answered, "I am here because your cousin, Lady Kerhill—"
"Diana?" Jim softly breathed the name, but said no more.
Petrie continued: "Believes that if you will speak—if you will break the silence of years, you can return to England and assume your proper place at the head of your house, and in the world."
So it was to Diana he owed this. "Then there is one who still believes in me. God bless her!" All restraint fell from Jim as he sat himself beside the solicitor and said, simply, "I did it for her sake, Petrie." Then, as though unconscious of the other man's presence, he sat staring ahead of him.
His surmise had been right, Petrie thought. This man was not guilty. The case began to assume new interest and new complications. He must hear more. Jim roused himself. From an inside pocket of his shirt he drew a small bag which held a sheet of faded paper.
"You are familiar with the late Kerhill's writing. You are also familiar with his character and life. I have never allowed this paper to leave my body." As he spoke he handed the paper to Petrie. "But death has cancelled this agreement."
Petrie read the document. Jim sat motionless. As the sun dropped lower and lower towards the west, bolts of scarlet and purple seemed to be hurled from its blazing brilliance down on the cabin and the yard. Petrie broke the silence.
"So you took upon your shoulders his guilt?" In his tone there was no great surprise.
"Not for him, Petrie—for her. It was too late for her to find out—well, what he was." The rebellion against the dead man seemed to choke him. Then he added, "I did it for her sake, Petrie."
A restlessness took possession of Jim. All the old memories and sorrows began to lay their withering hands upon him. He crossed to the hitching-post and leaned against it as he watched with unseeing eyes the purple-and-red rays tipping the Uinta peaks.