Prudence brought the machine to a standstill, and propping one elbow upon the table rested her chin upon her hand.
“I believe you are right, Aunt Sarah,” she said slowly. “Hervey’s certainly found something which has set him thinking. I rather fancy I know––or can guess––what it is that has roused him.”
The old lady turned from the window and gazed curiously at her pupil. She was keenly interested. The recreation of her life was the observation of her kind. Her logic and philosophy may not always have been sound, but she never failed to arrive somewhere in the region of the truth. The recent change in Hervey had puzzled her.
“He asked me yesterday to let him see that notice in the Free Press which appeared when Leslie was murdered,” Prudence went on. “He also asked me what Leslie’s dying words were. He insisted on the exact words.”
“The storm will break soon,” observed Sarah. She had turned away to the window.
“I wonder,” said Alice; “perhaps he has discovered–––” She broke off meaningly.
“That’s what I think,” said Prudence.
Sarah shook her head; but what she meant to 213 convey was uncertain, for she had her back turned and she said nothing at the moment. Prudence restarted her machine and Alice reluctantly bent over her patterns. Sarah moved back from the window. She saw a horseman galloping over the prairie in the direction of the house. She had recognized Iredale.
“Girls,” she said, her soft eyes turning on Prudence’s bent head, “I really think some one should be helping the mother. This is baking day.” Prudence looked up with an expression of contrition. “No––no, not you, child. You stay here and get on with your fandangles and dressmaking. I’ll go and help her.”
Without waiting for a reply she darted off. She had no intention of having her innocent little scheme upset. The moment after her departure the clatter of horse’s hoofs came in through the open window. Alice, looking up, saw Iredale dismounting from his horse. She jumped up to go to the front door.