d to find no
joy in his master's or mistress's company. He seemed to have no
affection in him, and lived a life of mute protest.

Hervey did not speak for a few minutes. It was Prudence who broke the
silence.

"I suppose it is something to do with Leslie's death that you want to
talk to me about. I wondered what your object was when you questioned
me so closely upon his dying words. Have you discovered a fresh
clue?"

"Something more than a fresh clue." Hervey had relapsed into his old
moroseness.

"Ah!" The girl's face lit with an almost painful eagerness. For a
moment her own immediate troubles were forgotten. A wild feeling
surged up in her heart which set the blood tingling in her veins, and
she waited almost breathlessly for her brother's next words.

Hervey displayed no haste. Rather he seemed as though he would gain
time.

"That message or advertisement in the paper. Did you ever attempt to
fathom its meaning? It was something of a puzzle."

Prudence gazed up at the dark face beside her. Hervey was looking down
upon the dusty trail. His look was one of profound thought. In reality
he was calculating certain chances.

"I tried, but failed dismally. To me it conveyed nothing beyond the
fact that its author shot Leslie."

"Just so. But before I tell you what I have discovered you must
understand the argument. That line contained a message, a message so
significant that once read with understanding the mystery of Grey's
death became one that a child might solve."

"Yes--yes. But the reading of it," Prudence exclaimed impatiently.

"It is intelligible to me."

"And----"

It was a different girl to the one we have hitherto seen who awaited
the man's next words. The old, gentle calmness, the patient, even
disposition had given place to a world of vengeful thought. There was
a look in those usually soft brown eyes which bore a strange
resemblance to her brother's. A moment had arrived in her life when
circumstances aroused that other side of her character of which,
perhaps, even she had been ignorant. She learned now of her own
capacity for hatred and revenge. Some preliminary warnings of these
latent passions had been given when Grey had died, but the moment had
passed without full realization. Now she felt the ruthless sway of a
wave of passionate hatred which seemed to rise from somewhere in her
heart and creep over her faculties, locking her in an embrace in which
she felt her good motives and love