A second flash of light burned in upon the girl. "That man, Peale—and the other ruffian. They knew about the shipment just as you did. They waylaid him ... and buried him in some old mine." Moya faced them tensely, a slim wraith of a girl with dark eyes that blazed. She had forgotten all about conventions, all about what they would think of her. The one thing she saw was Jack Kilmeny in peril, calling for help.
But Lady Farquhar remembered what Moya did not. It was her duty to defend her charge against the errant impulses of the heart, to screen them from the callous eyes of an unsympathetic world.
"You jump to conclusions, my dear. Sit down and we'll talk it over."
"No. He called for help. I'm going to take it to him."
Again Verinder laughed unpleasantly. Moya did not at that moment know the man was in existence. One sure purpose flooded her whole being. She was going to save her lover.
India wavered. She, too, had lost color. "But—you're only guessing, dear."
"You'll find it's true. We must follow that pipe and rescue him. To-night."
"Didn't know you were subject to nerve attacks, Miss Dwight," derided Verinder uneasily.
Moya put her hands in front of her eyes as if to shut out the picture of what she saw. "He's been there for five days ... starving, maybe." She shuddered.
"You're only guessing, Miss Dwight. What facts have you to back it?" Bleyer asked.