Part 21 (1/2)
”And the taxi-driver? What did he say? Eh?”
”We never were able to find him.”
”Oh, ho! Golemar! You hear?” The old trapper's voice was stinging with sarcasm. ”They nev' fin' heem. But the woman she was in a taxi.
Ah, _oui_. She could pa.s.s, just at the moment. She could put in the mind of the jury the fact that there was a quarrel, while she preten'
to help M'sieu Houston. But the taxi-driver--no, they nev' fin' heem!”
”Let's wait, Ba'tiste.”
”Oh--ah, _oui_.”
On they drove in silence, talking of trivial things, each fencing away from the subject that was on their minds and from mention of the unfortunate interview with Medaine Robinette. The miles faded slowly, at last to bring the camp into view. Ten minutes later, Houston leaped from the buggy and knocked at the door of the cottage.
”I want to see Miss Jierdon,” he told the cook who had opened the door.
That person shook her head.
”She's gone.”
”Gone? Where?”
”To town, I guess. She came back here from Miss Robinette's last night and packed her things and left. She didn't say where she was going.
She left a note for you.”
”Let me have it!” There was anxiety in the command. The cook bustled back into the house, to return with a sealed envelope addressed to Houston. He slit it with a trembling finger.
”What she say?” Ba'tiste was leaning from the buggy. Houston took his place beside him, and as the horse was turned back toward the trapper's cabin, read aloud:
”Dearest Barry:
”Hate awfully to run away like this without seeing you, but it can't be helped. Have an offer of a position in St. Louis that I can't very well refuse. Will write you from there.
”Love and kisses.
”AGNES.”
Ba'tiste slapped the reins on the horse's back.
”She is like the Judas, eh?” he asked quietly, and Houston cringed with the realization that he had spoken the truth. Judas! A feminine Judas, who had come to him when his guard had been lowered, who had pretended that she believed in him, that she even loved him, that she might wreck his every plan and hope in life. A Judas, a--
”Let's don't talk about it, Ba'tiste!” Houston's voice was hoa.r.s.e, weary. ”It's a little too much to take, all in one day.”
”_Tres bien_,” answered the old French-Canadian, not to speak again until they had reached his cabin and, red-faced, he had turned from the stove to place the evening meal on the table. Then, his mouth full of crisply fried bacon, he waved a hand and spluttered with a sudden inspiration:
”What you do, now?”
”Queer question, isn't it?” The grim humor of it brought a smile, in spite of the lead in Houston's heart. ”What is there to do?”
”What?” Ba'tiste gulped his food, rose and waved a hand with a sudden flash of emphasis. ”Peuff! And there is ever'thin'. You have a mill.”
”Such as it is.”
”But eet is a mill. And eet can saw timber--enough to keep the wolf from the door. You have yourself. Your arm, he is near' well. And there is alway'--” he gestured profoundly--”the future. He is like a woman, the future,” he added, with a little smile. ”He always look good when he is in the far away.”
The enthusiasm of the trapper found a faint echo in Houston's heart.