she
seemed happy all the time, right up to the night she went. And as for
Coqueline she was the greatest ever. But he'd got her, that skunk had
her, and the thing must have been going on all the time. Still, we never
saw a sign. Not a sign. Millie never liked Garstaing, and he wasn't ever
encouraged to get around our shanty. And we had him there less after
Nita came. There's times I'm guessing it didn't begin after you went.
There's times I think there was a beginning earlier. Millie feels that
way, too. I know it don't make things better talking this way. But it's
what I feel, and think, and it's best to say it right out. I can't tell
you how I feel about it. And anyway it wouldn't make things easier for
you. I promised you, and all I said is not just hot air. I'm sick to
death--just sick to death."

Ross's voice died away, and the silence it left was heavy with disaster.
Steve had no reply. No questions. He seemed utterly and completely
beyond words. His strong eyes were expressionless. He lay there still,
quite still, with his unopened letter lying on the blankets before him.

Ross was no longer observing. His distress was pitiful. It was there in
his kindly eyes, in the purposeless fashion in which he fingered his
pipe. He was torn between two desires. One was to continue talking at
all costs. The other was precipitate, ignominious flight from the sight
of the other's voiceless despair. He knew Steve, and well enough he
realized what the strong wall the man had set up in defence concealed.
But he was held there silent by a force he had no power to deny, so he
sat and lit, and re-lit a pipe in which the tobacco was entirely
consumed.

How long it was before the silence was finally broken he never knew. It
seemed ages. Ages of intolerable suspense and waiting before Steve
displayed any sign beyond the deep rise and fall of his broad chest.
Then, quite suddenly, he reached out for the collected sheets of his
official report. These he laid on the blankets beside the unopened
letter his erring wife had addressed to him. Then he looked into the
face of the man whose blow had crushed the very soul of him. Their eyes
met, and, to the doctor, it seemed that mind had triumphed over the
havoc wrought. Steve's voice came harshly.

"When'll I be fit to move?" he demanded.

"A week--if Belton gets back."

Ross was startled and wondering.

"Belton don't cut any ice."

"But we need the wagon."

The protest, however, wa