A STAB IN THE DARK
Mrs. Malling fumbled her glasses out of her pocket and adjusted them
on her nose. She had paused in her work to receive her letters, which
had just been brought from Lakeville. The girls stood by waiting to
learn the news.
The summer kitchen was stifling hot. The great cook-stove, throwing
off a fearful heat, helped to heighten the brilliancy of the
farm-wife's complexion, and brought beads of perspiration out upon her
forehead. Prudence and Alice looked cool beside "Mother Hephzy," but
then they were never allowed to do any work in the kitchen. Mrs.
Malling loved her kitchen better than any part of the house. She had
always reigned supreme there, and as long as she could work such would
always be the case.
Now she was preparing the midday meal for the threshing gang which was
at work in the fields. Great blocked-tin canteens stood about upon the
floor waiting to receive the hot food which was to be sent down to the
workers. Hephzibah was a woman of generous instincts where the inner
man was concerned. The wages she paid were always board wages, but no
hired man was ever allowed to work for her and pay for his keep. She
invariably insisted that every labourer should be fed from her
kitchen, and she took care that his food was the best she could
provide.
"Alice, girl," the old lady said, as she tore open the first letter,
"go and see if Andy is hitching-up yet. Tell him that the dinner boxes
will be ready in quarter-hour. Maybe you'll find him in the bean
patch, I sent him to gather a peck o' broad beans. Who's this from?"
she went on, turning to the last page of her letter to look at the
signature. "H'm--Winnipeg--the bank. Guess I'll read that later."
Alice ran off to find Andy, and Mrs. Malling picked up another
envelope.
"Prudence, my girl," went on the farm-wife, as soon as Alice's back
was turned, "just open that other," pointing to a blue envelope. "The
postmark reads Ainsley. I take it, it's from young Robb Chillingwood.
Maybe it's to say as he'll be along d'rectly."
Prudence picked the last letter up.
"It is hot in here, mother; I wonder you can stand it."
Her mother looked up over her spectacles.
"Stand it, child? It's a woman's place, is the kitchen. I can't trust
no one at the stove but myself. I've done it for over forty summers,
an' I don't reckon to give it up now. This is from that p'lice feller.
He ain't doing much, I'm thinking. Seems to me he spends most of his
time in making up his bills of expenses. Howsum, you look into it.
What's Master Robb say?"
She put her glasses back into their broad old-fashioned case and
turned back to the stove. She could never allow anything to keep her
long from her cooking. She lifted a lid and stabbed her cooking fork
gently into a great boiler full of potatoes. Then she passed round to
the other side and shook up the fire.
"Oh, what a shame, mother! Won't Al be disappointed? Robb can't come
out here, at least not to stay." Prudence had finished her letter and
now looked disappointedly over at her mother.
"And how be that?" asked the old lady, standing with a shovel of
anthracite coal poised in her hand.
"He says that the rush of emigrants to the district keeps him at work
from daylight to dark. It's too bad. Poor old Al!"
Mrs. Malling dumped the coal into the stove with a clatter and
replaced the circular iron top. She said nothing, and Prudence went
on.
"He's coming out this way on business shortly, and will call over here
if possible. But he can't stay. Says he's making money now, and is
writing to Al and giving her all particulars. I _am_ sorry he can't
come."
"Well, well; maybe it's for the best," said her mother, in a
consolatory manner. "Seemingly his coming would only 'a caused
bickerings with Hervey, and, good-sakes, we get enough of that now.
I'm not one for underhand dealings, but I'm thinking it would be for
the best not to say anything to your brother about his coming at all.
If he asks, just say he can't come to stop. I'd sooner keep Hervey
under my eye. If he goes off, as he said, you never know what mischief
he'll be getting up to. He just goes into Winnipeg and gets around
with them scallywags, and--and you never know. I have heard
tell--though he never lets on--as he's too fond o' poker. Leastways, I
do know as he spends more money than is good for him. Sarah and me was
talking only the other day. Sarah's pretty 'cute, and she declares
that he's got gaming writ in his lines. Maybe it's so. I'll not
dispute. He won't have no excuse for leaving now." And she sighed
heavily and took up the vegetables from the stove.
Alice returned, and the sound of wheels outside told the farm-wife
that the buckboard was ready for the men's dinner.
The two girls and the old lady portioned out the food into the great
canteens, and Andy lifted them on to the buckboard. Then the choreman
drove away.
By the time the farm dinner was ready Alice had quite got over her
disappointment. Prudence had told her the contents of the letter, and
also her mother's wishes on the subject. Alice was naturally too
cheerful to think much of the matter; besides, she was glad that
Robb's business was improving.
Hervey came up from the fields in Andy's buckboard. He always came
home for his dinner, and to-day he brought an atmosphere of unwonted
cheerfulness with him. He had spent much thought and consideration
upon his relations with George Iredale, and the result of his
reflections was displayed in his manner when he returned from the
fields. Never in his life had he held such a handful of trumps. His
hand needed little playing, and the chances of a cross ruff looked to
him remote.
After the meal he went out to the barn, where he smoked for awhile in
pensive solitude. He thought long and earnestly, and was so absorbed
that he looked up with a start at the sound of his mother's voice
calling to him from the open kitchen window.
"Bestir yourself, Hervey, boy. There's work to be done down in the
fields, which is your share in the day's doings."
And the man, removing the pipe from his mouth, forgot to grumble back
a rough retort, and answered quite cheerfully--
"All right, mother. Is Prudence there?"
"Where should she be, if not?" replied his mother, turning back from
the window to tell his sister that she was wanted.
Prudence came out. Hervey watched her as she approached. He could not
but admit to himself the prettiness of her trim figure, the quiet
sedateness of her beautiful, gentle face. Gazing intently, he failed
to observe the faint shadow in the expression of her soft brown eyes.
There was no sympathy in his nature, and without sympathy it would
have been impossible to read the expression. But Prudence was feeling
a little sad and a little hurt. Iredale had not fulfilled his promise.
Two days had passed since he had told her that he loved her and had
asked her to be his wife; nor, since then, had he been over to the
farm, nor had she heard a word from him. Fortunately, she told
herself, she had said nothing of what had passed between them, not
even to her friend Alice; thus she was spared the sympathy of her
friends. She had waited for his coming with a world of eager delight
in her heart, and each moment of the day on which he was to have come
to see her mother had been one of unalloyed happiness to her. Then as
the evening drew on she became anxious. And again as night came, and
still no sign from him, her anxiety had given place to alarm. That
night she slept little, but she kept her trouble to herself. Alice was
all eagerness to ask questions of her friend, but Prudence gave her no
opportunity. The next morning a note had arrived. Business detained
him, but he would be over at the earliest possible moment. And now the
third day was well advanced and he still remained away. She did not
doubt him, but she felt hurt and a little rebellious at the thought of
his allowing himself to be detained by business. Surely his first duty
was to her. It was not like him, she told herself; and she felt very
unhappy.
Hervey greeted her with an assumption of kindness, almost of
affection.
"Are you busy, Prue? I mean, I want to have a little talk with you.
I've been working in your interests lately. You may guess in what
direction. And I have made a strange discovery. We haven't hit it off
very well, I know, but you must forgive me my shortcomings. I have
lived too long in the wilds to be a pleasant companion. Can you spare
me a few minutes?"
The dark eyes of the man were quite gentle in their expression, and in
the girl's present state of mind his apparent kindliness had a strong
effect upon her. She was surprised, but she smiled up into his face
with a world of gratitude. In spite of all, her love for her brother
was very deeply rooted. The simplicity of her nature and the life she
lived made her an easy victim to his villainous wiles.
"Why, yes, Hervey; as long as you like."
"Good; I'm going down to the threshing. Will you walk some part of the
way with me? Mother has just reminded me that my work must not be
neglected. Another two days and we shall be ready for the fall
ploughing."
The sun was pouring down with fervid intensity. The yard was very
still and quiet. Everything that had leisure was resting drowsily in
the trifling shade obtainable. The swine had ceased to make themselves
heard and were sleeping upon each other's abdomens. The fowls were
scratching with ruffled feathers in the sandy hollows of the parched
earth, which they had made during the hours of morning energy. The
pigeons had departed for the day to the shelter of a distant bluff.
Even the few horses remaining within the barn were dozing. The dog,
Neche, alone seemed restless. He seemed to share with his master the
stormy passions of a cruel heart, for, with infinite duplicity, he was
lying low, pretending to be occupied with a great beef shin-bone,
while his evil eyes watched intently the movements of half-a-dozen
weary milch cows, which were vainly endeavouring to reach the shelter
of their sheds. But the dog would not have it. With a refinement of
torture he would allow them to mouch slowly towards their yard, then,
just as they were about to enter, he would fly into a dreadful
passion, and, limping vigorously at their heels, would chase them out
upon the prairie and then return once more to his bone, only to await
his opportunity of repeating the operation.
Hervey and Prudence moved away and passed down the trail. Neche
reluctantly left his bone--having satisfied himself in a comprehensive
survey that no canine interloper was about who could steal his
treasure during his absence--and followed them. He walked beside the
girl without any sign of pleasure. He was a dog that seemed 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 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 I was my own master,
unfettered by duties and distasteful labours for which I am
responsible to others. From the beginning my life has been a failure.
But that was not originally my fault. I worked hard, and my ideals
were sound and good. Then I met with misfortune. My life was my own
to make or mar after that; what I chose to do with it was my own
concern. But here I do not live. I want the means to get away; to
make a fresh start in different surroundings. Sooner or later I must
go, or I shall become a raving maniac. You can help me in this, even
as I can help you in the cause in which you are now spending and
wasting a lot of money. Get mother to give me fifteen thousand
dollars, not only as the price of my information, but also to help
me, as your brother, to make another start. I am not wanted here,
neither do I want to remain."
He ceased speaking. The truth had died out of his tone when he
mentioned the money, and his words were the specious wheedling of one
who knows the generous kindliness of those with whom he is dealing.
But Prudence gave no heed to anything but that which found an
answering chord in the passionate emotion which swayed her. Hervey's
appeal to get away drew from her some slight proportion of sympathetic
understanding, but her main feeling was a desire to learn the truth
which he had discovered.
"Yes, yes; but the clue--discovery."
"First, the money. First, you must show me that you will do this thing
for me."
"I can only answer for myself. I can promise nothing in mother's
name."
"Yes, but for yourself. You have an interest in the farm."
"Yes, I will give you all I have--all--all--if you can prove to me,
and in a court of law, who was the man who shot Leslie Grey. I have
saved nearly everything I have made out of creamery. It is not as
large a sum as you require, but I can raise the rest from mother. You
shall have all you ask if you can tell me this thing. But bear this in
mind, Hervey, you will have to prove your words. I give you my word of
honour that the money will be forthcoming when you have accomplished
this thing."
Prudence spoke earnestly. But there was caution in what she said. She
did not trust her brother. And though she was ready to pay almost
anything for the accomplishment of her purpose, she was not going to
allow herself to be tricked.
Hervey didn't like these stipulations. He had calculated to extort a
price for his information only. The proving of his charge was a
matter which would entail time and trouble, and something else which
he did not care to contemplate; besides, he wanted to get away. His
recollection of his recent interview with Iredale was still with him.
And he remembered well the rancher's attitude. It struck him that
George Iredale would fight hard to prove his innocence. He wondered
uncomfortably if he could establish it. No, he must make a better
bargain than the girl offered.
"See here, Prue, this is a matter of business. There is no sentiment
in it as far as I am concerned. Your conditions are too hard. You pay
me half the money down when I give you the story. You can pay the rest
when I have carried out your further conditions. It is only fair.
Establishing a case in the law courts is a thing that takes time. And,
besides, I have known guilty people to get off before now. I can
convince you of the truth of my case. A jury is different."
Prudence thought for a moment. They were already within earshot of the
thresher. And the droning of the machine and the jerky spluttering of
the traction engine sounded pleasantly in the sultry atmosphere. The
dog hobbled lazily at her heels, nor did he show the least sign of
interest in his surroundings. The wagons loaded with bountiful sheaves
were drawing up to the thresher from half-a-dozen directions, whilst
those already emptied were departing for fresh supplies. Everywhere
was a wondrous peace; only in those two hearts was an ocean of
unrest.
"Very well. If you can convince me, it shall be as you say. You shall
have the money. The rest shall remain until after the jury's verdict.
I am not prepared to give you the money I have saved for any tale you
choose to concoct. Now let me have your story. You have shown me too
much of your sordid craving to make me a ready believer."
"You will believe me before I have finished, Prue," the man retorted,
with a bitter laugh. "You will find corroboration for what I have to
tell in your own knowledge of certain facts."
"So much the better for you. Go on."
In spite of her cautious words Prudence waited with nerves tingling
and with rapidly beating heart for her brother's story. She did not
know herself. She did not understand the feelings which swayed her.
Hervey had an easier task than either of them believed. Of late she
had dwelt so long--so intently--upon the matter under discussion that
she was ready to believe almost anything which offered a solution to
the ghastly mystery. But she did not know this. Hervey told his story
with all the cunning of a man who appreciates the results which attach
to the effect of his words. He lost no detail which could further his
ends.
"Grey, on his deathbed, alluded to the notice in the paper. He did so
in answer to your question as to who had shot him?"
"Yes."
"He was perfectly conscious?"
"Yes."
"Some time before he died you and he had discussed this notice, and he
told you he was meditating a coup in which that notice had afforded
him his principal clue." The girl nodded, and Hervey went on. "Grey
was a Customs officer. All his works centred round contraband. No
other work came into his sphere of operations. Very well, the clue
which that notice afforded had to do with some illicit traffic. The
question is, What was the nature of that traffic? Here is the obvious
solution. 'Yellow booming.' What traffic is known by such a title as
'Yellow' in this country? There is only one. Traffic in Chinese! The
smuggling of Chinese across the border. And this traffic was booming.
Operations were being successfully carried out. Where? The rest is
easy. Somewhere in Grey's district. 'Slump in Grey' could only mean,
under the circumstances, that Grey's supervision was avoided; that the
work was carried out in spite of him. You know--everybody knows that
Chinese are smuggled into Canada at many points along the border, and
that opium is brought in at the same time. Thus the poll tax and the
opium tax are avoided by men who make a living out of this traffic.
The profit is worth the risk. There is a fortune in smuggling opium.
The authorities are endeavouring to put it down. It is well known that
our cities are swarming with Chinese for whom no poll tax has been
paid. And yet the legitimate importation of opium does not increase.
Rather has it decreased in consequence of the prohibitive tax imposed
upon it. Still, these Chinese must have their opium. This then was the
coup poor Grey meditated. He had discovered a hotbed of opium
smuggling. If he succeeded in rounding the smugglers up, it meant a
great deal to his future prospects. Is that all plain?"
"Yes, yes; go on."
The girl's eyes were gleaming strangely. She followed every word her
brother said with an intentness which boded well for the result of his
efforts. The careful array of arguments was speciously detailed. Now
she waited for what was still to come without any attempt at
concealing her impatience. For the time everything was forgotten while
she learned of the murderer of her first love. The peaceful scene
about her was set before eyes which no longer gazed with intelligence
upon their surroundings. She was back in the farm parlour listening to
Leslie's story of his hopes--his aspirations. Every detail of that
evening was brought vividly back to her memory. She remembered, too,
that that was the night on which Hervey had returned. There was a
significance in the thought that was not lost upon her.
Hervey had come to a stand, and Prudence placed herself before him.
Neche squatted beside her, and as he sat his head reached up to her
waist.
"Very well. The question alone remains, who along the border in this
part of the country is smuggling Chinese? And having found your man,
did he insert the notice in question?"
"Yes--and you----"
"Chance pointed out the man to me. And I have ascertained the rest."
"And who is the murderer of Leslie?"
There was an impressive pause. Hervey gazed down into the eager
upturned face. The dog beside the girl moved restlessly, and as he
moved he made a curious whining noise. His nose was held high in the
air, and his greenish eyes looked up towards the spotless sun-bonnet.
"The owner of Lonely Ranch. George Iredale!"
Hervey turned abruptly away. Neche had moved a little way back along
the trail and stood looking about him. Then out on the still air rang
a piercing, hysterical laugh. And Prudence stretched out her arm and
clutched at the barbed-wire fence-post as though her mirth had
overcome her.
Hervey looked sharply round upon her. Neche gave a low growl, the
noise seemed to have offended him; then he limped off down the trail
back to the house.