could not see his face. He passed her without a sign and went
down to the stable. Then she rode up to the house and slipped from her
saddle at the foot of the steps. Her father and mother hurried to meet
her.

"It is Arthur. It is Wayne's brother," cried Wanda brokenly from her
mother's arms. "He is dead!"

She told them briefly, hurriedly. Her father, his eyes strangely hard
and inscrutable swore softly and turning without a word to either of
the women went back to the house as Wayne had done, got his hat and
hurried to the stable. His voice, hard and expressionless like his
eyes, floated up to them as he gave his brief orders to Jim to drive
straight back to the spot Wanda had described. The girl saw him enter
the stable and in a little while come out, riding a saddled horse.
Already Wayne Shandon had ridden off along the trail, travelling with a
fury of speed that took no heed of the miles ahead of him.

Mother and daughter turned and went slowly up the steps, their arms
about each other, their cheeks wet.

"Who killed him, mamma?" whispered the girl, her moist eyes lifted.
"Who could have killed him?"

The silent tale that a pearl handled revolver had told her was a lie, a
hideous lie. She did not believe it, she was never going to believe
it. For an instant there had been a horrible suspicion in her breast,
then her loyalty had risen and crushed it and killed it and cast it
out. But now she sought some new explanation to take its place, sought
it with intense eagerness.

"Who killed him?" Mother's and daughter's eyes met furtively for a
quick second. And then the mother's answer was no answer at all, but a
broken, tremulous prayer: "Dear God, may they never know who did this
thing!"

They did not look at each other again as they crossed the length of the
veranda, on the north exposure of the great square house and turned
into the spacious living room.

"I am going to my room, mamma," said the girl faintly. "I want to be
alone just a little."

She knew that her mother was watching her as she passed through the
living room and out through the double doors to the veranda at the
east. But she did not turn. She did not ask what her mother had
meant, she did not wish to know. She wanted just now more than
anything in the world, to be alone in her own room, to take from her
bosom the thing which she felt every one would know she had there, to
hide it where it would be safe.

To the east of