Tess thought quickly. Frederick had told her he was afraid of
Waldstricker. So was she! He was the man who had been instrumental in
taking her husband away from her. She felt a cold rage growing into
active life within her. How dared he come here.

She was looking at him so steadily that the powerful churchman lowered
his eyes, and for a moment pretended to be arranging the horse's bridle.
Then, he centered his bold, black eyes upon her until her nerves
tingled.

"I wish to see what he's written you," he repeated, this time rather
lamely.

"I ain't got any letters," Tess told him.

"Haven't you received any from him?" demanded Waldstricker.

The girl shook her head so decidedly that her curls vibrated to the very
ends. It was as though every bit of her loving body would shield the
dear one way off in France from this compelling, mesmeric man.

Waldstricker felt she was not telling the truth. He grew enraged, the
blood flying purple to his face.

"I said I wanted you to give them to me," he repeated emphatically,
going nearer her.

"An' I says as how I didn't have none," evaded Tess, growing angrier by
the minute. "An' if I did, I wouldn't give 'em to you. 'Tain't none of
yer business if I get letters, I'll have ye know!" She took several
backward steps toward the shanty. Her rising temper stirred up the
impudence she used in her conflicts with the rude fishermen. "Jump on
yer horse an' trot home," she finished tauntingly.

Waldstricker's mingled surprise and anger showed in his exclamation.
What an impertinent little huzzy she was! In his heart he believed
Madelene was right, but the defiant squatter girl baffled him. He would
go home more than ever satisfied Tess Skinner was keeping from him
something about his young brother-in-law. He mounted his horse, his
muscles working with rage.

"I'll make you confess sooner or later," he muttered ominously, "or I'll
know the reason why."

"Scoot!" was all Tess said, and she waved her hand and snapped the
pruning shears together derisively.

Waldstricker whirled his horse up the lane, and striking the animal with
a spur, bounded away.

CHAPTER XXI

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON

Helen Waldstricker walked nervously up and down the library. Many times
during the past hour she had gone to the window and stared out into the
night. It was almost impossible to read or work with her mind in such a
state of perturbation. Every sound caused her to lay aside her