Part 14 (1/2)

”He shall pay me my price for this,” she promised herself softly, ”and it shall not be a light one.”

(Hugh Hading had paid his price for her girlhood; Lundi Druro should pay for the rest of her life!)

Only one thing could put her right with her own pride and before the little world which had witnessed the slight, and that she would exact--the announcement that he was hers, body and soul, to do with as she pleased. That the honour would be an empty one, this evening's _deroute_ would seem to have demonstrated; he had proved once more that he was no man's man, and no woman's man, either; he belonged to his sins, and his weaknesses, and his failings. But, for the moment, it would be enough for Marice Hading that he should propose to her and be accepted. Her time would come later--afterward. There were many modes of recompense of which she was past mistress, many subtle means of repayment for injuries received. Such a mind as hers was not lacking in refined methods of inflicting punishment. It would be proved to him, in bitter retribution, that Marice Hading could not be trifled with and neglected--_forgotten for a game of cards_!

In the meantime, she eased her anger a little by snubbing Tryon, when he came to claim a waltz she had given him early in the week. Looking at him with cool and lovely disdain as she leaned on the arm of the great politician who still lingered with her, she disclaimed all recollection of any such engagement.

”You should be careful not to make such mistakes, Mr. Tryon,” she said haughtily.

”_Soit_! The mistake is mine as well as the loss,” he murmured gracefully, knowing very well what was his real crime. ”But prophets must be prepared for losses. In olden days they have even been known to lose their heads for prophesying too truly.” And on that he made a bow, and returned to Gay, whom he had left in their sitting-out place, which was his car. She had danced but little all the evening and seemed lost in dark thoughts.

”Tired?” he asked, leaning on the door beside her.

”No; but I'm sick of this dance,” she said fiercely. ”Take me for a spin, d.i.c.k.”

”Right. But the roads are pretty bad in the dark, you know.”

Gay pondered a moment.

”The Selukine road isn't bad”--she paused a moment, then slowly added, ”and the road to Glendora.”

It was Tryon's turn to ponder. The road to the Glendora was the worst in the country, but it didn't take him long to read the riddle.

”Come on, then!” he said abruptly. ”Shall I get your cloak?”

”No; let me wear your things, d.i.c.k.” She took up a big motor-coat and deer-stalker from the driving-seat and slipped into them. The rose-pink gown disappeared and was lost under the darkness of tweed, and the cap covered her bright hair. She sat well back in the shadows of the tonneau.

Tryon set the car going, climbed moodily into the lonely driving-seat, and steered away into the darkness just as the music stopped and a crowd of dancers came pouring out of the ballroom.

The Glendora lay west of the town, and the road to it ran past the club. As luck would have it, a man coming from the latter place, and pus.h.i.+ng a bicycle before him, almost collided with them, causing Tryon to pull up short.

”Is that you, Emma Guthrie?” he called irritably.

”Yep!” came the gloomy answer.

”Seen anything of Lundi?”

”Nope!” on a deeper tone of gloom. Gay touched Tryon's shoulder.

”Make him come, too,” she whispered.

”I'm just taking a run out to the Glendora,” announced Tryon. ”Want to come?”

”I do,” said Guthrie, with laconic significance, and climbed in beside the driver. They flipped through the night at thirty miles an hour, which was as much as Tryon dared risk on such a road. The Glendora was about ten miles off. Gay, furled in the big coat and kindly darkness, could hear the two men exchanging an occasional low word, but little was said. It was doubtful whether Guthrie knew who Tryon's other pa.s.senger was.

In time, the clanking and pounding of a battery smote their ears, and the twinkling myriad lights of a mining camp were spread across the darkness. One large wood-and-iron house, standing alone on rising ground, well back from the road, was conspicuously brilliant. The doors were closed, but lights and the sound of men's voices raised in an extraordinary uproar streamed from its open, unblinded windows and fanlights. Abruptly Tryon turned the car so that it faced for home, halted it in the shadow of some trees, and jumping out, strode toward the house, followed by Guthrie and Gay.

Almost as they reached it, the door was flung open, and a man came out and stood in the light. He was pa.s.sing his hand over his eyes and through his hair in an odd gesture that would have told Gay who he was, even if every instinct in her had not recognized Druro. The pandemonium in the house had fallen suddenly to a great stillness, but as Guthrie and Tryon reached the house, it broke forth again with increased violence, and a number of men rushed out and laid hands on Druro as if to detain him. He flung them off in every direction; a couple of them fell scrambling and swearing over the low rail of the veranda. Then, several spoken sentences, terse, and clean-cut as cameos, fell on the night air.