The Hound From The North

“You mustn’t let me disturb you, Prudence,” Iredale said in his low, pleasant voice. “What is this”–fingering the material–“a new fall dress? Wonderful how you can cope with the intricacies of the manufacture of such things. It would be a very sorry day for me if I were left to cut my own coats.” He laughed nervously.

Prudence detected an unusual eagerness in his voice, and something warned her that this man had come over that afternoon to see her alone. She joined in the laugh, but her eyes remained quite serious.

“When did you come back from town?” she asked, after a pause.

“I haven’t been to town. I’ve been across the border. My business took me into Minnesota.”

“Oh, I thought you had been to Winnipeg.” She stooped and caressed the great dog at her feet.

Iredale shook his head. A vivid flash of lightning shot across the open window, and a crash of thunder followed it immediately. The storm was breaking at last.

“I’ll close the window.” Iredale moved across the room to do so. Prudence looked after him. When he returned he sat himself in Alice’s chair, having brought it nearer to the machine. Then followed a long silence while the machine rattled down a seam. The man watched the nimble fingers intently as they guided the material under the needle. The bent head prevented him seeing more than the barest outline of the girl’s cheek, but he seemed content. Now that the moment had arrived for him to speak, he was quite master of himself.

“Prudence,” he began, at last, “I am giving up my ranch. I have been making the necessary arrangements. I have done with money-making.”

“Really.” The girl looked up sharply, then down again at her work. She had encountered the steady gaze of the man’s earnest eyes. “Are you going to–to leave us?” She was conscious of the lameness of her question.

“I don’t quite know. That depends largely upon circumstances. I am certainly about to seek pleasant places, but I cannot tell yet where those pleasant places will be found. Perhaps you will help me.”

“How?” The seam swerved out into a great bow, and Prudence was forced to go back over it.

“Easily enough, if you will.”

The girl did not answer, but busied herself with the manipulation of her machine. Her face had paled, and her heart was thumping in great pulsations. Iredale went on. He had assumed his characteristic composure. What fire burned beneath his calm exterior, it would have needed the discerning eyes of Sarah Gurridge to detect, for, beyond the occasional flashing of his quiet grey eyes, there was little or no outward sign.

“I have known you for a good many years, child; years which have helped to put a few grey hairs on my head, it is true, but still years which have taught me something which I never dreamed of learning out here on the prairie. They have taught me that such a thing as love exists for every man on this earth, and that somewhere in this world there is a woman who can inspire him with feelings which make the pettinesses of his own solitary existence seem very small indeed. I have learned that man was not made to live alone, but that a certain woman must share his life with him, or that life is an utterly worthless thing. I have learned that there is but one woman in the world who can help me to the better, loftier aspirations of man, and that woman is–you, Prudence.”

The girl had ceased to work, and was staring straight in front of her out of the window, where the vivid lightning was now flashing incessantly. As Iredale pronounced the last words she shook her head slowly–almost helplessly. The man had leaned forward in his chair, and his elbows rested on his parted knees, and his hands were tightly clasped.

“Don’t shake your head, dear,” he went on, with persuasive earnestness. “Hear me out first, and then you shall give me your decision. I know I am much older than you, but surely that disparity need not stand in our way. I dare say I have many more years of life yet left than lots of younger men. Besides, I am rich–very rich. With me you can live the life you choose. If you wish to stay here on the prairie, why, you shall have the most perfect farm that money can buy; if, on the other hand, you choose to see the world, you only have to say the word. Prudence, I know I am not a very attractive man. I have little to recommend me, and my life has not always been spent as perhaps it should have been; but I love you very dearly, and my future shall be devoted to your happiness. Will you be my wife?”

There was a deafening crash of thunder which seemed to come from directly overhead. The dog started up with a growl. Then he stood looking up into the girl’s face. The dying reverberations slowly rolled away and left the room in deathly silence. The serious light in the girl’s eyes was augmented by the decided set of her mouth. She kept her face studiously turned from Iredale, who, observing with all the intuition of a man in deadly earnest, read in her expression something of what his answer was to be.

“Can you not–do you not care for me sufficiently?”

The words contained such a world of appeal that Prudence felt herself forced to turn in his direction. She now looked squarely into his eyes, nor was there the faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her manner. The moment had come when she must choose between herself and her self-imposed duty. She knew that she loved Iredale, but–she checked something which sounded very like a sigh. She had listened to the precepts of Sarah Gurridge all her life, and, in consequence, she had learned to regard her duty before all things. She now conceived she had a great duty to perform. She felt so helpless–so feeble in the matter; but the voice of conscience held her to her mistaken course.

“I believe I love you; I am sure I care for you very, very much, but–”

“Then you will marry me.” The man reached out to take her hand, but she drew it back. His eager eyes shone in the stormy darkness in which the room was bathed.

She shook her head.

“When Leslie Grey was murdered I made a vow that I would not rest until the murderer was brought to justice. My vow is unfulfilled. I could not marry you and be happy while this is so. Do you know what marriage with you would mean? Simply that I should make no effort to fulfil my vow to the dead. I cannot marry you now.”

Iredale was staggered by the woeful wrong-mindedness under which he considered she was labouring. For a moment he could scarcely find words to express himself.

“But–but surely, child, you are not going to let this phantom of duty come between us? Oh, you can never do such a thing! Besides, we would work together; we would not leave a stone unturned to discover the wretch who did him to death–”

He broke off. Prudence answered swiftly, and the set of her face seemed to grow harder as she felt the difficulty of abiding by her resolve.

“This is no phantom of duty, George. It is very much a reality. I cannot marry you–until–until–”

Iredale was smiling now. The shock of the girl’s strange decision had passed. He saw something of the motive underlying it. Her sense of duty seemed to have warped her judgment, and, with quiet firmness, he meant to set it aside.

“And this is the only reason for refusing me?” he asked. He had become serious again; he seemed merely to be seeking assurance.

“Yes. Oh, George, can’t you see how it is?” She gazed appealingly into his face. And the man had to keep a very tight hold upon his feelings.

“I am afraid I am a little dense, child,” he said gravely.

“I must make you understand,” Prudence went on with nervous haste. Her conscience urged her forward, whilst her love prompted her to set aside all recollection of the dead and to bask in the love this man offered her. She was a simple, womanly soul, trying with all the strength of her honest purpose to resist the dictates of her love, and to do that which seemed right in her own eyes. The task she had set herself had seemed easy when she had spoken of it to Alice, but now in the face of this man’s love, in the face of her own self-realization, it seemed beyond her strength. “Listen to me, and you will see for yourself that I must not marry you–yet. I believed that I loved Leslie Grey truly, fondly. As I look back now I am sure I did. I was never happy but when I was with him. He seemed so strong and resolute. I never had a moment in which to doubt myself. Then, when he died, the agony I suffered was something too dreadful to contemplate. As he lay on the little bed with his life slowly ebbing, and I watched him dying by inches, I was filled with such horror and despair that I thought surely I should go mad. Then it dawned on me that he had been murdered, and my anguish turned to a dreadful feeling of rage and longing to avenge him. Never in my life did I experience such terrible passion as at that moment. I believe at the time I really was mad. The one thought in my mind was, ‘Who–who has done this thing?’ Then Leslie died, and in his death agony he spoke and told me, as well as his poor gasping faculties could tell me, what had happened. His words were unintelligible to every one except me. And those words formed a clue to the assassin’s identity. By his bedside I swore to avenge him. Never would I rest until my oath was carried out. As you know, after that I became ill and went away. And, oh, the shame of it, during those months of rest and illness I forgot Leslie Grey, I forgot my vow. I forgot everything that claimed my duty. Think of it–the shame, the shallow heartlessness, the fickle nature which is mine. I, who had loved him as I believed no girl had ever loved, had forgotten him as though he had never come into my life.”

Iredale nodded comprehensively as the girl paused.

“Then you came into my life,” Prudence went on. Her face was turned towards the window now, outside of which she saw the tongues of lightning playing across the sky. “Time went on, and slowly something crept into my heart which made me realize my shortcomings. Gradually my conduct was revealed to me in its true colours, and I saw myself as I really was–a heartless, worthless creature, so despicable, even to myself, as to make me shudder when I contemplated the future. Let me be honest now, at least. I knew that I loved you, George, that is”–bitterly–“as far as I was capable of love; but what sort of affection was mine to give to anybody? I could not trust myself–I despised myself. My conscience cried out. Leslie’s unavenged death still remained. My vow was still unfulfilled. Knowing this, how could I believe in this new love which had come to me? No, I could not. And it was then that I saw what I must do. Before I could ever dream of love I must redeem the pledge I made at Leslie’s deathbed. That alone could restore my faith in myself. I know that it is almost impossible to convey to you all that I have thought upon the matter; but, believe me, I can never marry while Leslie remains unavenged.”

Tears stood in the girl’s eyes as she finished up her curiously twisted self-accusations. And the sincerity of her words was not to be doubted for a moment. Iredale had listened wonderingly, and he marvelled to himself at the wonders of perspective in a woman’s mind.

“And you are prepared to undertake the matter–alone?”

“Mother is helping me–it costs money.”

“Just so. But would not a man’s help be of greater importance than your mother’s? Don’t you think that your husband’s assistance might help you far more? That it might be able to lighten the burden of this self-imposed labour. Tut, tut, child. Because of your vow it should not deter you from marriage, especially when your husband is not only ready, but most willing to assist you in clearing up the mystery, and avenging Leslie Grey. As regards the quality”–with a quiet smile–“of your regard, well, come, you love me, little girl, on your own confession, and if you have no graver scruples than you have offered, then you must–marry me.”

Iredale leant forward and took the girl’s two hands in his. This time she made no resistance. She allowed them to rest in his broad palms, and, in spite of all her protests, felt ineffably happy.

At last she drew them away and shook her head weakly.

“No, it is no good, George. You must not be burdened with my undertaking. I cannot consent to such a thing. It is only your generosity and kindness which make you look at the matter so lightly. You would regret your decision later on, and then–No, mother and I will see the matter through. We have already secured the services of the smartest detective in Winnipeg, and he is working upon the only clue we possess.”

“But I insist,” said Iredale, with a smile which made his plain features almost handsome. “And, Prue, I am going to tell your mother that you have engaged yourself to me, and that I am a new recruit, fortune as well, in the work. No–” holding up his hand as the girl was about to protest again–“no objections, sweetheart. And, before we go further, tell me of this clue.”

Prudence smiled happily. She had done her duty; she had laid bare her heart to this man. She had spared herself in no way. She had let him see, she told herself, the sort of girl she was. He still cared for her; he still wished to marry her. She bowed her will to his quiet decision.

“It is not much to go upon, but, as Deane, that is the detective, says, it is a decided clue.”

She rose from her seat and walked over to a small work-table. At that moment the house shook to its very foundations with a dreadful crash of thunder. Neche, who had moved with her, leapt fiercely at the window as though flying at some invisible enemy. The girl called him to her side, then she stood trembling. Flash after flash of lightning blazed in the heavens, and she covered her eyes with her hands, whilst the thunder seemed as though it would rend the earth from end to end. Iredale was at her side in an instant, and his arm was about her, and he drew her head upon his shoulder. Instantly her nerve was restored, and, as the noise passed, she quietly released herself. Then, stooping, she opened the drawer of the table and produced a torn copy of the Winnipeg Free Press. She held out the paper and pointed to the personal column.

“See,” she said, with her index finger upon the second line of the column. “‘Yellow booming–slump in Grey.’ Those who are responsible for that message, whatever it may mean, are also responsible for Leslie’s death.”

Iredale’s eyes were fixed with a terrible fascination upon the print. A breath escaped him which sounded almost like a gasp. His hands clenched at his sides, and he stood like one turned into stone.

“How–how do you know this?” he asked, in a tense, hoarse voice.

“Leslie said so with his last dying breath.”

There came no answering word to the girl’s statement. Iredale did not move. His eyes were still upon the paper. The silence of death reigned in the room. Even the storm seemed suddenly to have ceased; only was there the incessant swish of the torrential rain outside.

“That is the clue poor Leslie gave me.”

“Ah!”

“What do you think?”

“You must give me time to think.”

Iredale’s mouth was parched. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. For the moment he could scarcely realize his position. An overwhelming horror was upon him. Suddenly he turned.

“What is the date of that paper?”

“A few days before Leslie’s death. But this notice has appeared many times since–which will make our task the easier.”

“Yes, it will make our task the easier.”

Another pause, which was protracted until the silence could almost be felt. Then Prudence spoke.

“You will stay to tea?”

Iredale pulled himself together.

“No, I think not. The storm has passed, the rain is ceasing. I had better hurry back home. It will come back on us–the storm, I mean.”

The girl looked out of the window.

“Yes, I think it will. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Hervey went over to see you this afternoon.”

Iredale’s eyes turned sharply upon the girl.

“Ah, yes, I will go at once. I will call to-morrow and see Mrs. Malling. Good-bye.”

He turned away and abruptly left the room. Prudence looked after him. She saw him pass out; she saw him go out by the front door and hurry down the little path which bisected the front garden. She saw him go round to the stables, and he seemed not to heed the rain which was still falling lightly. But it was not until she saw him riding away down the trail that she realized the suddenness of his departure and the fact that he hadn’t even attempted to kiss her.

Iredale’s horse received little consideration at its master’s hands on that homeward journey. The animal was ridden almost at racing pace over the long ten miles of country. And all the way home the words the girl had spoken were running in his ears with maddening insistence–

“And when we find the author of those words we find his murderer.”

She had virtually accused him of murder. For he alone was the author of those words in the paper. Truly his sins were finding him out.

CHAPTER XIII
BLACKMAIL

As Hervey entered the valley of the ranch he listened for the warning owl cries. To-day, however, there were none. He smiled to himself as he noted the fact, for he knew their origin; he knew their object. He understood that these cries were the alarm of sentries stationed at certain points to warn those at the ranch of the approach of strangers. He knew, too, that they were used as signals for other things. And he admired the ingenuity of Iredale in thus turning the natural features of the valley to his own uses. Rain was beginning to fall in great drops, and the thunder of the rising storm had already made itself heard. He urged his horse forward.

Few men can embark on a mission of hazard or roguery without some feelings of trepidation. And Hervey was no exception to the rule. He experienced a feeling of pleasurable excitement and anticipation. There was sufficient uncertainty in his mission to make him think hard and review his powers of attack with great regard for detail. There must be no loophole of escape for his victim.

On the whole he was well satisfied. But he was not unprepared for failure. During his acquaintance with Iredale he had learned that the master of Lonely Ranch was not easily trifled with, neither was he the man to accept a tight situation without making a hot fight for it. It was just these things which gave Hervey the gentle qualms of excitement as he meditated upon the object of his journey. He thought of the large sums of money he had borrowed from this man, and the ease with which they had been obtained. He remembered the kindly ways and gentle manner of this reserved man, and somehow he could not get away from the thought of the velvet glove.

But even as he thought of it he laughed. There was no getting away from the facts he possessed, and if it came to anything in the shape of physical resistance, well, he was not unprepared. There was a comfortable feeling about the heavy jolt of the six-chambered “lawyer” in his pocket.

The valley seemed much more lonely than usual. The horrid screeching of the watchful sentries would almost have been welcome to him. The forest was so dark and still. Even the falling raindrops and the deep rolling thunder had no power to give the place any suggestion of life. There was a mournful tone over everything that caused the rider to glance about him furtively, and wish for a gleam of the prairie sunlight.

At length he drew up at the house. There was no one about. A few cattle were calmly reposing in the corrals. There was not even the sharp bark of a dog to announce his arrival. As Hervey drew up he looked to see Iredale come to the door, for he knew the rancher had returned from his wanderings; but the front door remained shut, and, although the window of the sitting-room was wide open, there was no sign of any occupant within the room. He dismounted and stood thinking for a moment. Then he raised his voice and called to Chintz.

His summons was repeated before the man’s ferret face appeared round a corner of the building. The little fellow advanced with no show of alacrity. Iredale had told him nothing about any expected visitor. He was not quite sure what to do.

By dint of many questions and replies, which took the form of nods and shakes of the head on the part of Chintz, Hervey learnt that Iredale had gone over to Loon Dyke, but that he would be back to supper.

“Then I’ll wait for him,” he said decidedly. “You can take my horse. I’ll go inside.”

The head man took the horse reluctantly and Hervey passed into the house.

For a long time he stood at the open window watching the storm. How it raged over the valley! The rain came down in one steady, hissing deluge, and the hills echoed and re-echoed with the crashing thunder. The blinding lightning shot athwart the lowering sky till the nerves of the watcher fairly jumped at each successive flash. And he realized what a blessing the deluge of rain was in that world of resinous timber. What might have been the consequences had the storm preceded the rain? Hardened as he was to such things, even Hervey shuddered to think.

Wild as was the outlook, the waiting man’s thoughts were in keeping with his surroundings, for more relentless they could not well have been. Iredale’s money-bags should surely be opened for him that night before he returned home. He would levy a heavy toll for his silence.

His great dark eyes, so indicative of the unrestrained nature which was his, burned with deep, cruel fires as he gazed out upon the scene. There was a profoundness, a capacity for hellishness in their expression which scarcely belonged to a sanely-balanced mind. It was inconceivable that he could be of the same flesh and blood as his sister, and yet there was no doubt about it. Perhaps some unusually sagacious observer would have been less hard to convince. Hervey was bad, bad all through. Prudence was good. Swayed by emotion the girl might have displayed some strange, hidden, unsuspected passionate depths, as witness her feelings at her dying lover’s bedside. Her rage at the moment when she realized that he had been murdered was indescribable. The hysterical sweep of passion which had moved her at that moment had been capable of tragic impulse, the consequences of which one could hardly have estimated. But her nature was thoroughly good. Under some sudden stress of emotion, which for the moment upset the balance of reason, a faint resemblance to the brother might be obtained. But while Hervey’s motives would be bad, hers would have for their primary cause a purpose based upon righteousness. The man needed no incentive to sway his dispositions. He had let go his hold upon the saving rock, now he floated willingly upon the tide of his evil disposition. He preferred the broad road to Hell to the narrow path of Righteousness. It may not always have been so.

The storm abated with the suddenness of its kind. During Hervey’s long wait Chintz did not leave him entirely alone. Several times, on some trivial pretext the little man visited the sitting-room. And his object was plainly to keep an eye upon his master’s unbidden guest. At last there came a clatter of galloping hoofs splashing through the underlay of the forest, and presently Iredale pulled up at the door.

Hervey watched the rancher dismount. And his survey was in the nature of taking the man’s moral measure. He looked at the familiar features which he had come to know so well; the easy, confident movements which usually characterized Iredale; the steady glance, the quiet undisturbed expression of his strong face. The watching man saw nothing unusual in his appearance, nothing to give him any clue; but Hervey was not a keen observer. Only the most apparent change would have been seen by him; the subtler indications of a disturbed mind were beyond his ken. Iredale seemed to be merely the Iredale he knew, and as he watched his lips parted with a sucking sound such as the gourmand might make in contemplating a succulent dish.

Iredale came in. Hervey met him at the door of the sitting-room, and his greeting was cordial, even effusive.

“How are you, George? I knew you were to be back to-day. Jolly glad you’ve returned. Quite missed you, you know. By Jove! what a storm. Wet?”

“A bit; nothing to speak of. They told me at the farm you were over here.”

Iredale looked quickly round the room. His survey was not lost upon his visitor. Then he went on–

“Chintz looked after you? Had any refreshment? Whisky?”

“Chintz looked after me! He looked in every now and then to see what I was doing.” Hervey laughed unpleasantly. “Yes, I can do with a gentle ‘four-fingers’; thanks.”

Iredale produced a decanter and glasses and a carafe of water. Then he excused himself while he went to change his clothes. While he was gone Hervey helped himself to a liberal measure of the spirit. He felt that it would be beneficial just then. His host’s unconcerned manner was a little disconcerting. The rancher seemed much harder to tackle when he was present.

Presently Iredale returned, and, seating himself in a deck-chair, produced a pipe, and pushed his tobacco jar over to his visitor. He was wondering what Hervey had come over for. He had no wish for his company just then. He had hoped to spend this evening alone. His mind was still in a state of feverish turmoil. However, he decided that he would get rid of the man as quickly as the laws of hospitality would allow.

A silence fell whilst the rancher waited to hear the object of the visit. The other refused to smoke, but Iredale lit his pipe and smoked solemnly. His face was, if possible, more serious than usual. His eyes he kept half veiled. Hervey cast about in his mind for the opening of his attack. He seated himself on the edge of the table and looked out of the window. He raised his eyes to the leaden sky, then he withdrew his gaze and looked upon the floor. He swung one leg to and fro, as he leant sideways and supported his attitude with a hand resting upon the table. At length, as the silence continued, and Iredale presently raised his eyes and stared straight at him, he turned to the decanter and helped himself to another drink. Then he set his glass down with a heavy hand.

“Good tack, that,” he observed. “By the bye, where have all your owls departed to? Are they like the ducks, merely come, pause, and proceed on their migratory way? Or perhaps”–with a leer–“they only stand on sentry in the valley when–when you require them to.”

Iredale permitted the suspicion of a smile. But there was no geniality in it; on the contrary, it was the movement of his facial muscles alone. Hervey had touched upon delicate ground.

“Did they not welcome you with their wonted acclamation?” he asked, removing his pipe from his lips, and gently pressing the ash down into the bowl with his finger-tip.

The other grinned significantly. He had plunged, and now he felt that things were easier. Besides, the spirit had warmed him.

“That’s a real good game you play, George, old man. The imitation is excellent. I was deceived entirely by it. It was only the other night that I learned that those fearful screech-owls were human. Most ingenious on your part. You are well served.”

Iredale never moved. He smoked quite calmly. His legs were crossed and the smile still remained about his mouth. Only his eyes changed their expression, but this was lost upon Hervey, for they were half closed.

“I don’t think I quite understand. Will you explain?” The rancher spoke very deliberately, his voice was well modulated but cold.

Hervey laughed boisterously to cover a slight nervousness. This attitude of Iredale’s was embarrassing. He had anticipated something different.

“Is there any need of explanation?” he asked, when his forced hilarity had abruptly terminated. “The only thing which puzzles me is that you’ve kept it up so long without being discovered.”

There was a long pause. Then Iredale removed his pipe from his mouth, knocked it out upon the heel of his boot, and returned it to his pocket. Then he rose from his seat and stood squarely before the other.

“Don’t let us beat about the bush,” he said. “I think plain speaking is best–in some cases. Now, what have you to say?”

Hervey shrugged his shoulders. His dark eyes avoided the other’s gaze; the steely flash in Iredale’s grey eyes was hard to confront.

“A good deal,” he said, with raucous intonation. “The smuggling of Chinese and consequently opium is a profitable trade. There’s room for more than one in it.”

“Go on.”

Iredale’s tone was icy.

“Of course I am not the man to blow a gaff like this. There’s too much money in it, especially when worked on extensive lines, and when one is possessed of such an ideal spot as this from which to operate That was a positive stroke of genius of yours in selecting the graveyard as a hiding-place. I suppose now that place is honeycombed with cellars for the storage of–of–yellow. Must be, from the number of ‘yellow-devils’ I saw come out of the grave the other night. My, but you’re slick, Iredale; slick as paint. I admire you immensely. Who’d have thought of such a thing? I tell you what, you were never intended for anything but defeating the law, George, my boy. We could do a lot together. I suppose you aren’t looking for a partner?”

Iredale’s face wore an almost genial expression as he replied. The rancher’s tones were so cordial that Hervey congratulated himself upon the manner in which he had approached the subject.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t,” he said. “As a matter of fact, you must have seen me despatching my last cargo of–yellow. Why? Were you thinking of starting in the business?”

“That is my intention.”

“Is?”

“Yes, is.” Hervey’s tone was emphatic, and his attitude truculent.

“Ah! are you prepared to buy this place?” Iredale went on. “I can easily hand you over my connection.”

“Buy?” Hervey thought this man was dense. “Why, I haven’t two cents to my name to buy anything with. No, I don’t think there will be any buying and selling between us, George Iredale.”

“Then what do you propose? We may as well come to a definite arrangement.”