being crushed out of all
recognition. There could be no doubt as to the resemblance between
these two people in that one touch of nature. Hervey was a long time
in answering. He had not only to tell her of his discovery, but there
were his personal interests to consider. He wished to re-assure
himself of his own advantage.

"See here, Prue, what are you offering--or rather, is mother
offering--to that detective chap if he discovers the murderer of Grey?
Let us quite understand one another. I don't intend to part with my
discovery for nothing. I want money as badly as anybody can want it.
For a consideration I'll tell you, and prove to you, who murdered your
man. Provided, of course, the consideration is sufficiently large.
Otherwise I say nothing."

For a moment Prudence looked up from beneath her sun-bonnet into her
brother's face. The scorn in her look was withering. She had long
since learned the selfish nature of this man, but she had not realized
the full depths to which he had sunk until now. He would sell his
information. And the thought scorched her brain with its dreadful
significance.

"How much will buy you?" she asked at last. And words fail to express
the contempt she conveyed in her tone.

Hervey laughed in a hollow fashion.

"You don't put it nicely," he said. "Ah, how much will buy me?" he
added thoughtfully.

"When a man chooses the methods of Judas it seems to me there need be
no picking or choosing of words. What do you want? How much?"

His answer came swiftly. He spoke eagerly, and his tone was quite
different from that which his companion was used to. It was as if some
deep note in his more obscure nature had been struck, and was now
making itself heard above the raucous jangling of discord by which his
life was torn. His words were almost passionate, and there was a ring
of truth in them which was astonishing, coming from such a man.

"Look here, Prue, I want to get away from here. I want to get out
upon the world again, alone, to make my life what I choose. I can't
stand this place; the quiet surroundings; the people with whom I
come in contact. It isn't living; it's existence, and a hellish
one at that. Look around; prairie--nothing but prairie. In the
winter, snow, endless snow; in the summer, the brown, scorched
prairie. The round of unrelieved, monotonous labour. Farming; can
mind of man conceive a life more deadly? No--no! I want to get
away from it all; back to the life in which