“Maybe some day,” he said. “But—not right now. It’s a bad story.”
They had turned out of the side road, and on to the sidewalk of the main thoroughfare. It was still within the business hours of the place, and as Claire gazed about her a certain unusual movement was observable among the people. She drew a deep sigh.
“Sometimes I think it awful in me,” she said, a little desperately. “He’s dead. Hanged. The man who murdered Jim. I’m—glad. Yes,” she went on a little defiantly, “I’m glad. And Jim’s gold?”
“Recovered—most of it. And passed to the feller it rightly belongs. Len Stern. That boy needs it. You don’t, Claire. Your mother don’t. You’re both—my affair.”
“Yes. We don’t need it—anyway.”
McLagan smiled at the little touch of independence in the girl’s words.
They were approaching the Plaza with its balcony and its loungers. He could see the face of Jubilee Hurst leaning out gazing in their direction. And he knew the thing that was coming.
Jubilee’s challenge came on the instant of their approach. It came full of all that irresponsible lightness which masked the real seriousness of the man.
“Ho, Mac!” he cried. “Is it true? Is it real, or have I got a bad nightmare? I’ve turned over a couple of times but it’s still the same. I can’t get away from the messy sight of crude oil streaming all through the streets of Beacon. Is it true? Or are you yearning to see us poor folk plumb bug?”
Claire and McLagan smiled up into eager face. They realised the presence of the others on the veranda. There was Abe Cranfield. And Burt Riddell was gloomily inquiring as he leant over the rail beside his partner.