"You'd better ride down to Ford's to-night and find out," returned Lumley in a sulky, indifferent tone; "you'll have a warm welcome!"
"It's false!" Gray almost shouted the words. "They have no reason."
Lumley looked up at him with a grin.
"That's a pretty statement for you to make, partner. Anyway, there's a warrant out against you. Not for this pretty stuff alone, mind you—suspicion of murder!"
His crafty, cruel eyes fixed themselves on Gray's pallid twitching face.
"Murder of your mate, partner. 'Twas a pity you had to do it, for it's a hanging matter; but he was an obstinate chap, I expect. Pious and all that."
"They believe I murdered Harding?" Gray gasped out.
"Don't take on, partner," returned Clay cheerfully; "murder will out, as they say. And the police haven't got you yet. You trust to me: I know a track that'll take us out safe enough. I daresay you feel queer, though. It's unpleasant to be tracked by the police. I'm used to it, but I don't like it. I expect you wouldn't have done it if you'd thought you'd have been found out; eh, partner?"
It overwhelmed Gray to find that he could be suspected of a cold-blooded treacherous murder.
"You think—you dare to think—" he broke out, and then his voice failed him.