“Yes, I think it will. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Hervey went over to see you this afternoon.”
Iredale’s eyes turned sharply upon the girl.
“Ah, yes, I will go at once. I will call to-morrow and see Mrs. Malling. Good-bye.”
He turned away and abruptly left the room. Prudence looked after him. She saw him pass out; she saw him go out by the front door and hurry down the little path which bisected the front garden. She saw him go round to the stables, and he seemed not to heed the rain which was still falling lightly. But it was not until she saw him riding away down the trail that she realized the suddenness of his departure and the fact that he hadn’t even attempted to kiss her.
Iredale’s horse received little consideration at its 225 master’s hands on that homeward journey. The animal was ridden almost at racing pace over the long ten miles of country. And all the way home the words the girl had spoken were running in his ears with maddening insistence––
“And when we find the author of those words we find his murderer.”
She had virtually accused him of murder. For he alone was the author of those words in the paper. Truly his sins were finding him out.