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For a month or two I might keep straight, then I've tried to describe my people you can imagine their feelings at the inevitable outbreak. Besides, there's a more serious difficulty." Jernyngham's tense face relaxed into a grim smile. "Can you imagine Ellice an inmate of an English country house, patronizing local charities, presiding over prim garden parties? The idea's preposterous!
Muriel changed the subject. "For all that, I feel you are right in staying, Cyril. Have you written to your people?" Prescott felt embarrassed and guilty, as he generally did when, in confidential moments, she called him by Jernyngham's name. Somehow he could not imagine her saying Jack. "No," he rejoined slowly. "Of course, they must be written to." Muriel did not answer.
"And did Kermode get through his work satisfactorily?" "For a while. He was a handy man; might have made a boiler-maker if he'd took to it young. When we had nothing else to keep him busy, he'd cut tobacco for us and set us laughing with his funny talk." This was much in keeping with Jernyngham's character.
Now, it seemed, Jernyngham was dead, which was unfortunate, because Wandle had found their joint operations profitable, and it was very probable that Ellice and himself were the only persons who knew about the land. Wandle mounted one of the horses and set out for Jernyngham's homestead at its fastest pace.
I think I can promise that it will not happen again." Then he rose. "I have some business waiting and you must excuse me. I can assure you that nothing which promises to throw any light upon the matter will be neglected." He opened the door and politely but firmly bowed out his visitor. Then he called Curtis, who was waiting below. "I dare say you can guess Mr. Jernyngham's errand," he said.
In another few moments it led him to the truth; everything was clear. He had once met Wandle driving toward the settlement wearing such a suit, and by good fortune he had shortly afterward been overtaken by a farmer who must have seen the man. In his excitement he struck the table. "Now I know!" he cried. "The man who forged Jernyngham's name hid his clothes near my house to fix the thing on me.
Thin duck overalls are commonly worn by ranchers and working people, in place of heavier clothing, during the hot weather. Then Curtis turned to Prescott. "What's your idea?" "It isn't Jernyngham's," the rancher said decidedly. "It's too old, for one thing; looks as if it had been in the water quite a while." "Hard to tell," commented Curtis. "But go on."
"I suppose you know that Jernyngham's missing?" "I heard that he was killed." "Looks like it," said Curtis. "You know the muskeg where the creek spreads out, about fourteen miles north?" "I don't; never been up so far." Curtis noticed the prompt disclaimer. "Anyway, Jernyngham rode there and was knocked out with something heavy that must have left him stunned, if it didn't make an end of him.
She was wrapped up in cold propriety; she must have led an uneventful life, looked up to and obeyed by the small community that owned her father's rule. Romance could not have touched her; she was not imaginative; but he thought there were warmth and passion lying dormant somewhere in her nature. She could not have wholly escaped the consequences of being Cyril Jernyngham's sister.
He declares the jacket isn't Jernyngham's; he won't allow the man can be in the muskeg. A day or two after Jernyngham disappeared he bought one of the new wide-swath binders. Paid the money down in new bills, which was what Jernyngham had, though the implement agent didn't note the numbers." "Pretty strong points. What's your private opinion? Out with it."
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