“Then you would disbelieve me?”
She thought a moment.
“No.”
Brent went for the spade, threw the stones aside and began to dig. Manon did not move or offer to help. She stood and watched him, conscious of the sudden and peculiar intimacy that was joining her to this unexpected man. She was convinced that he had told her the truth.
Brent had opened a hole about a foot deep.
“Be careful,” she said suddenly; “the silver is in a big crock. You might strike it with a spade.”
Brent’s blue eyes flashed her a look of gratitude. She had thrown him a “Hail, comrade,” uttered one of those little, human confessions of faith that warm a man’s heart. She wanted him to understand that she believed in him, and that he should understand it before the spade turned up the truth. Brent treasured these words. They touched the pride of a man who had been a failure.
“How deep did you dig?” he asked.
“About half a metre—I had so little time.”
Brent thrust the spade softly into the soil and felt it jar on something solid. He glanced at Manon with an air of triumph.