For two or three days after that Durgan heard nothing, but Alden came and went on the mountain road, and once again made the journey to Hilyard.
At last, one evening after dark, Durgan received a message demanding his presence at the summit house. He went, and found the little family in some formal condition of distress—the elder lady sitting calm, but very sad, her usually busy hands idle in her lap; Bertha, her face swollen with tears, sitting beside her sister in an attitude of defiant protection; Alden moving restlessly about, his face blanched and haggard. The weather over all the mountain was still tense and dry. The cold had come without rain—a highly nervous condition for the human frame.
It was only Miss Claxton who tried to make Durgan's arrival more agreeable to him by a few words of ordinary conversation.
Then Alden spoke. "I believe now that yours was the right suspicion, Mr. Durgan. Miss Claxton having declined to help me at all, I resolved to ask you to be present while I tell her exactly what I suspect with regard to Charlton Beardsley. I would not have Miss Claxton without a protector while I am obliged to say and do what she tells me will make me her worst enemy. If so, it must be so. I cannot be silent. I cannot be inactive. I cannot be responsible for a murderer's freedom. But I will do no more without giving you all fair warning. I believe your wife to be implicated. We are here agreed in desiring your presence."
Durgan looked at the women. How often had he seen them here in the mellow lamplight, at peace in this beautiful retreat.
Bertha looked up at him. "Stay with us," said she. "You have done us an injury by betraying my confidence; now ward off the consequences if you can."
Miss Claxton's gentle face was also upturned. "It is right that you should stay to know what accusation will be brought against your wife; but I do not need your protection."
She looked towards Alden when she had spoken, and Durgan saw the little man quiver with distress.
Durgan sat down beside the sisters.