Hervey paused to watch the effect of his story. Prudence gave no sign. She no longer looked at her companion, but away across the harvested fields in the direction of Iredale’s ranch. As he waited for her comment her lips moved.
“Go on,” was all she said; and the man proceeded.
“It was an unconscious expression which, in the first flush of discovery I made use of which ultimately 260 gave me a clue to the rest. As realization of Iredale’s doings came to me I thought of the notorious ‘Traffic in Yellow.’ That night I pondered long over the whole thing. I had learned to like Iredale better than any man I have ever known. He had always seemed such an honest, straightforward man. And all of you folks were so fond of him. It was a painful awakening; but there was worse to come, for, as I lay awake thinking, there flashed through my brain the recollection of what you had told me of Grey’s death and his reference to the notice in the paper. Instantly the interpretation of that line came to me. It related to the yellow traffic. And I shuddered as I reviewed the possibilities which my discovery opened up. I couldn’t rest. A feverish desire to know the worst assailed me. I questioned you as you may remember, and, with every reply you gave me, my fears received confirmation. In the end I could no longer keep silence, and my anger drove me to a course which I have since almost regretted, for it has destroyed the last vestige of the regard I entertained for the man you have all so liked and respected. I went over to the ranch and challenged George Iredale–––”
“On the night of the storm. The night he visited me. Go on.” Prudence’s face was ghastly in its pallor. She gave no other sign of emotion.
“Yes, on the night of the storm. I taxed him with smuggling. He admitted it. I taxed him with the authorship of that notice–––”
“Well?” The girl leant forward in her eagerness.
“He did not contradict it. His attitude was a tacit admission. That is my evidence.”
Hervey ceased speaking, and a long pause followed. 261 The man waited. He did not wish to hurry her. He was not blind to the fact that she regarded Iredale with something more than mere friendly feeling, and, with fiendish cunning, he had played upon the knowledge by his allusions to his own regard for the man and the trust which they all placed in him. This woman’s love for Iredale he knew would help him; for, gradually, as the damning evidence he had produced filtered through her armour of loyal affection, her hatred for the man would be doubled and trebled. In this Hervey displayed a knowledge of human nature which one would scarcely have credited him with.
At last Prudence turned. The pallor of her face was unchanged. Only the look in her eyes had altered. The horror which had shone there had become a world of piteous appeal. All her soul shone forth in those sweet, brown eyes. Surely it must have needed a heart of stone to resist her. Her body was leaning forward, her two brown hands were held out towards him.
“I don’t believe it! I can’t believe it! George is no––murderer.”