“I asked you a question back there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of his hut, “an’ you said it was your affair; an’ we’d best let personalities stand for the moment. I’d like an answer before we go further. You reckon to be honest, I guess. Wal, now’s your chance. Tell me to my face what I’ve learned for myself. What were you doin’ round here last night? What were you doin’ in Marbolt’s kitchen?”
Tresler understood the motive of the man’s insistence now. Jake was showing him a side of his character he had hardly suspected. It was the human nature in the man asking for a confirmation of his worst fears, in reality his worst knowledge. For he was well aware that Jake had witnessed the scene in the kitchen.
“As I said before, it is my affair,” he responded, with an assumption of indifference. “Still, since you insist, you may as well know first as last. I went to see Miss Diane. I saw her——”
“An’?” There was a tense restraint in the monosyllable.
Tresler shrugged. “Miss Marbolt is my promised wife.”
There was a deathly silence after his announcement. Tresler looked out over the ranch. He seemed to see everything about him at once; even Jake was in the strained focus, although he was not looking at him. His nerves were strung, and seemed as though they were held in a vice. He thought he could even hear the sound of his own temples beating. He had no fear, but he was expectant.
Then Jake broke the silence, and his voice, though harsh, was low; it was muffled with a throatiness caused by the passion that moved him.
“You’ll never marry that gal,” he said.
And Tresler was round on him in an instant, and his face was alight with a cold smile.
“I will,” he said.