Truscott's face had paled, and a haunting fear looked out of his eyes. It was the thought of discovery that troubled him.
Dave ignored the interruption, and went on with his half-stern, half-pitying regard fixed upon the other.
"Had things gone right with him, and had the fire got a fair hold, nothing could have saved us." He shook his head. "That's a mean hate for a man I've never harmed. For a man I've always helped. You couldn't hate like that, Truscott? You couldn't turn on the man that had so helped you? It's a mean spirit; so mean that I can't hate him for it. I'm sorry—that's all."
"He must be a devil."
The fear had gone out of Truscott's eyes. All his cool assurance had returned. Dave was blaming the sawyer, and he was satisfied.
The lumberman shrugged his great shoulders.
"Maybe he is. I don't know. Maybe he's only a poor weak foolish fellow whose wits are all mussed up with brandy, and so he just doesn't know what he's doing."
"The man who filed that steel knew what he was doing," cried Truscott.
"Don't blame him," replied Dave—his deep voice full and resonant like an organ note.
But Truscott had achieved his object, and he felt like expanding. Dave knew nothing. Suspected nothing. Mansell had played the game for him—or perhaps——