“You got my note,” he said, choosing to ignore the result of his observations. “My delay in calling at the farm was unavoidable. I am in the midst of disposing of my ranch. I had not expected that I should have been called upon to do so so soon. I beg that you will forgive me what must seem an unwarrantable delay.”
Prudence’s nerves were so strung that she felt as though she could strike him for his calm words. Her 290 condition demanded the opposition of passion equal to her own. His coolness maddened her. So long had she dwelt upon the accusation Hervey had brought against him that she believed in this man’s guilt. The evidence of her own senses had militated against him, and now she steeled herself in an armour of unbelief. But, in spite of herself, the dictates of her heart were struggling hard to find the joints of her armour. Nor were the struggles lessened now that she stood confronting him. His coolness, though maddening to her, was not without effect. The moral influence he wielded was great.
She backed to the table; then she plunged into the subject of her mission without further preamble. Her eyes stared straight into his, and her tones sounded incisively in the stillness of the room.
“I little knew the man whom I was listening to when he offered me his life, nor had I an idea of how near I was to the man who inspired the words which have appeared in the paper––the words which were the last Leslie Grey ever uttered. What must have been your feelings when I told you that I knew their author to be a murderer?” Then, with scathing bitterness: “But your feelings must have long since been dead––dead as the poor creature you so wantonly sent to his reckoning. The time has come for you to defend yourself; that is, if defence you can offer. No flimsy excuse or extenuation will cover you. Even the Scriptures teach us that the penalty is ‘a life for a life.’ Yours is the hand that struck Leslie down, and now you must face the consequences of your wanton act.”
Iredale’s quiet eyes never attempted to avoid the 291 girl’s direct gaze, nor did he flinch as the accusation fell from her lips. Never was he more alert, never more gently disposed towards this half-demented creature than at that moment. He recognized the hand that had been at work, and he laid no blame upon her. His feelings were of sorrow––sorrow for the woman he loved, and sorrow for himself. But his thoughts were chiefly for her. He knew, as she had said, that his time had come.
“So Hervey has been to you to sell the discovery which I rejected at the price he asked. He told you that I was a smuggler; that the announcement in the paper was mine. And did he tell you that I was the murderer of Leslie Grey? Or did your heart prompt you to that conclusion?”
The girl supported herself against the table with one hand, and the other was still in the pocket behind her. Iredale noted these things without moving his eyes from her face.
“Hervey told me the facts and the inevitable proof they bore. Nor was his statement exaggerated. My own reason told me that.”
The man sighed. He had hoped that the work had been only of the brother’s doings. He had hoped that she had come bearing Hervey’s accusation and not her own.
“Go on,” he said.