The girl made no reply. Somehow the man’s harshly spoken rebuke thrilled her as no word of his had ever thrilled her before. Her love for him rose to something like worship as she regarded his plain face and thought of the world of kindly sympathy lying behind it. Her next words were almost humble.
“And the murderer?”
“Is dead. Hanged by the neck, and—dead.”
The intensity, the biting ruthlessness of the man’s tone, was in flat contradiction of his recent mood.
“Then what you thought—what you hoped of Len’s coming—proved out?”
“Surely.”
“Does Len know? Did he—help?”
“Len has my assurance. That’s all.”
“Will I ever know the whole thing—you know?”
McLagan smiled upon the dingy habitations about him.