“It is decidedly unfortunate,” replied Robles; “an unfortunate complication that may, of course, strengthen the suspicion against Willoughby and so render it more difficult for us to help him.”
Merle sprang to her feet, and with a hand dashed away her tears.
“Suspicion!” she exclaimed. “There can be not one moment’s suspicion.” And she gazed up into Robles’ face in ardent appeal.
“Of course not, my dear, among us—among all those who know Dick Willoughby. But there is the harshly judging world to reckon with besides. They may say that this discloses a motive for the crime.”
“However, Merle has just told us,” commented Mrs. Darlington, “that only she and Tia Teresa know anything about this unhappy episode in the rose garden. Mr. Willoughby has not been here at all today.”
“But I happen to know that he was not far away this afternoon—that he was rounding up some cattle in the near-by canyons. Malice may suggest that he was a witness of Thurston’s insolent behavior.”
“Then we should all keep silent on the subject.”
“Which might be compromising in the long run, my dear Mrs. Darlington. Altogether it is a difficult situation.”
Merle had been hardly listening to this conversation. She had been thinking, and with thinking had regained her composure. Her mind was quickly made up as to the line of prompt action that must be taken. She spoke quite calmly now.
“He is in prison. You have not spoken the word, Mr. Robles, but I know the truth all the same. We shall go to him tonight.”