CHAPTER XVI
AN ECHO FROM THE ALASKAN MOUNTAINS
Alice searched all over the farm for her friend. The last place in which she thought of looking was the little bedroom the two girls shared. Here at length she arrived, and a shock awaited her.
Prudence was sitting beside the window. She was gazing out at the bare, harvested fields, nor did she turn at her friend’s approach. It was not until Alice spoke that she looked round.
“Here you are, Prue! Why, whatever is the matter?” she exclaimed, as she noted the grey pallor of the face before her; the drawn lines about the mouth, the fiercely burning eyes. “You poor soul, you are ill; and you never told me a word about it. I have been looking everywhere for you. It is tea-time. What is it, dear?”
“Do I look ill?” Prudence asked wearily. She passed her hand across her forehead. She was almost dazed. Then she went on as she turned again to the window: “I’m all right; my head is aching–that’s all. I don’t think I want any tea.” The next moment she was all alertness. “Has Hervey returned from the fields?”
“Hervey? Yes; why? He’s returned and gone away again; gone into Winnipeg. He nearly frightened poor mother Hephzy out of her wits. Came in all of a sudden and declared he must hurry off to Winnipeg at once, and he wanted Andy to drive him. You know his way. He wouldn’t give any explanation. He was like a bear to his mother. My fingers were just itching to slap his face. But come along, dear, you must have some tea. It’ll do your head good.”
While she was speaking Alice’s eyes never left her friend’s face. There was something about Prudence’s expression she didn’t like. Her mind at once reverted to thoughts of fever and sunstroke and such things, but she said nothing that might cause alarm. She merely persisted when the other shook her head.
Eventually her persuasions prevailed.
“Mother Hephzy’s fretting away down-stairs and Sarah is backing her up. The long-suffering Mary has been catching it in consequence. So come along and be your most cheerful self, Prue. The poor old dears must be humoured.”
And Alice with gentle insistence led her companion down to the parlour.
“And where, miss, have you been all this precious time?” asked Mrs. Malling, when the two girls reached the parlour. “Sleeping, I’ll be bound, to judge by them spectacles around your eyes. There’s no git-up about young folk now-a-days,” she went on, turning to Sarah. “Six hours’ sleep for healthy-minded women, I says; not an hour more nor an hour less. Sister Emma was allus one o’ them for her sy-esta.” Then she turned back to Prudence. “Maybe she learned you, my girl.”
“I haven’t been sleeping, mother,” Prudence protested, taking her place at the table. “I don’t feel very well.”
“Ah, you don’t say so,” exclaimed the old lady, all anxiety at once. “An’ why didn’t you tell me before? Now maybe you’ve got a touch o’ the sun?”
“Have you been faint and giddy?” asked Sarah, fixing her quiet eyes upon the girl’s face.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a headache–nothing more.”
“Ah; cold bath and lemon soda,” observed her mother practically.
“Tea, and be left alone,” suggested Sarah.
“‘Nature designs all human ills, but in the making Suggests the cure which best is for the taking.’”
Her steady old eyes seemed able to penetrate mere outward signs.
“Quite right, ‘Aunt’ Sarah,” said Alice decidedly. “Leave the nostrums and quackeries alone. Prue will be all right after a nice cup of tea. Now, mother Hephzy, one of your best for the invalid, and, please, I’ll have some more ham.”
“That you shall, you flighty harum-scarum. And to think o’ the likes o’ you dictating to me about nostrums and physickings,” replied the farm-wife, with a comfortable laugh. “I’ll soon be having Mary teaching me to toss a buckwheat ‘slap-jack.’ Now see an’ cut from the sides o’ that ham where the curin’s primest. I do allow as the hams didn’t cure just so, last winter. Folks at my board must have of the best.”
“I never knew any one to get anything else here,” laughed Alice. Then she turned her head sharply and sat listening.
Mrs. Malling looked over towards the window. Prudence silently sipped her tea, keeping her eyes lowered as much as possible. She knew that, in spite of their talk, these kindly people were worried about her, and she tried hard to relieve their anxiety.
“Some one for us,” said Alice, as the sound of horse’s hoofs came in through the open window.
“Some one from Lakeville, I expect,” said Mrs. Malling, making a guess.
“That’s George Iredale’s horse,” said Sarah, who had detected the sound of a pacer’s gait.
Prudence looked up in a startled, frightened way. Sarah was looking directly at her. She made no further comment aloud, but contented herself with a quiet mental note.
“Something wrong,” she thought; “and it’s to do with him. Poor child, poor child. Maybe she’s fretting herself because–”
Her reflections were abruptly broken off as the sound of a man’s voice hailing at the front door penetrated to the parlour.
“Any one in?” cried the voice; and instantly Alice sprang to her feet.
“It’s Robb!” she exclaimed. There was a clatter as her chair fell back behind her; she nearly fell over it, reached the door, and the next moment those in the parlour heard the sound of joyous exclamations proceeding from the hall.
Prudence’s expression was a world of relief. Her mother was overjoyed.
“This is real good. Bring him in! Bring him in, Miss Thoughtless! Don’t keep him there a-philandering when there’s good fare in the parlour!”
“‘Love feeds on kisses, we read in ancient lay; Meaning the love of yore; not of to-day,’”
murmured Sarah, with a pensive smile, while she turned expectantly to greet the visitor.
Radiant, her face shining with conscious happiness, Alice led her fiancé into the room. And Robb Chillingwood found himself sitting before the farm-wife’s generous board almost before he was aware of it. While he was being served he had to face a running fire of questions from, at least, three of the ladies present.
Robb was a cheerful soul and ever ready with a pleasant laugh. This snatched holiday from a stress of under-paid work was like a “bunk” to a schoolboy. It was more delightful to him by reason of the knowledge that he would have to pay up for it afterwards with extra exertions and overtime work.
“You didn’t tell us when you were coming,” said Alice.
“Didn’t know myself. Thought I’d ride over from Iredale’s place on spec’.”
“And you’re come from there now?” asked Mrs. Malling.
Prudence looked up eagerly.
“Yes; I’ve just bought all his stock for a Scotch client of mine.”
“Scotch?” Sarah turned away with a motion of disgust.
“What, has George sold all his beasties at last?” exclaimed the farm-wife.
“Why, yes. Didn’t you know? He’s giving up his ranch.”
Robb looked round the table in surprise. There was a pause. Then Mrs. Malling broke it–
“He has spoken of it–hinted. But we wasn’t expectin’ it so soon. He’s made his pile.”
“Yes, he must have done so,” said Robb readily. “The price he parted with his cattle to me for was ridiculous. I shall make a large profit out of my client. It’ll all help towards furnishing, Al,” he went on, turning to his fiancée.
“I’m so glad you are doing well now, Robb,” the girl replied, with a happy smile.
“Yes.” Then the man turned to Mrs. Malling. “We’re going to get married this fall. I hope Alice has been learning something of housekeeping”–with a laugh.
“Why, yes. Alice knows a deal more than she reckons to let on, I guess,” said the farm-wife, with a fat chuckle.
Prudence now spoke for the first time since Robb’s arrival. She looked up suddenly, and, though she tried hard to speak conversationally, there was a slightly eager ring in her voice.
“When is George Iredale going to leave the ranch?”
Robb turned to her at once.
“Can’t say. Not yet, I should think. He seems to have made no preparations. Besides, I’ve got to see him again in a day or two.”
“Then you will stay out here?” asked Alice eagerly.
“Well, no.” Robb shook his head with a comical expression of chagrin. “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. But I’ll come over here when I’m in the neighbourhood, if possible.” Then to Mrs. Malling, “May I?”
“Why, certainly,” said the farm-wife, with characteristic heartiness. “If you come to this district without so much as a look in here, well, you can just pass right along for the future.”
When the meal was over the old lady rose from the table.
“Alice,” said she, “you stay right here. Sarah and I’ll clear away. Prudence, my girl, just lie down and get your rest. Maybe you’ll feel better later on. Come along, Sarah; the young folks can get on comfortably without us for once.”
Prudence made no attempt to do as her mother suggested. She moved about the room, helping with the work. Then the two old ladies adjourned to the kitchen. Robb and Alice had moved over to the well-worn sofa at the far end of the room, and Prudence took up her position at the open window. She seemed to have no thought of leaving the lovers together; in fact, it seemed as though she had forgotten their existence altogether. She stood staring out over the little front garden with hard, unmeaning eyes. From her expression it is doubtful if she saw what her eyes looked upon. Her thoughts were of other matters that concerned only herself and another.
The low tones of the lovers sounded monotonously through the room. They, too, were now wrapt in their own concerns, and had forgotten the presence of the girl at the window. They had so much to say and so little time in which to say it; for Robb had to make Ainsley that night.
The cool August evening was drawing on. The threshing gang was returning from the fields, and the purple haze of sundown was rising above the eastern horizon; Prudence did not move. Her hands were clasped before her; her pale face might have been of carved stone. There was only the faintest sign of life about her, and that was the steady rise and fall of her bosom.
A cool breeze rustled in through the open window and set the curtains moving. Then all became still again. Two birds squabbled viciously amongst the branches of a blue-gum in the little patch of a garden, but Prudence’s gaze was still directed towards the horizon. She saw nothing; she felt nothing but the pain which her own thoughts brought her.
Suddenly the sound of something moving outside became audible. There was the noisy yawn of some large animal rising from its rest. Then came the slow, heavy patter of the creature’s feet. Neche approached the window. His fierce-looking head stood well above the sill. His greenish eyes looked up solemnly at the still figure framed in the opening. His ears twitched attentively. There was no friendly motion of his straight, lank tail; but his appearance was undoubtedly expressive of some sort of well-meaning, canine regard. Whether the dog understood and sympathized with the girl at the window it would have taken something more than a keen observer to have said. But in his strangely unyielding fashion he was certainly struggling to convey something to this girl from whom he was accustomed to receive nothing but kindness.
For some moments he stood thus, quite still. His unkempt body rose and fell under his wiry coat. He was a vast beast, and the wolf-grey and black of his colouring was horribly suggestive of his ancestry. Presently he lifted one great paw to the window. Balancing his weight upon his only serviceable hind-leg, he lifted himself and stood with both front feet upon the sill, and pushed his nose against the girl’s dress. She awoke from her reverie at the touch, and her hands unclasped, and she slowly caressed the bristly head. The animal seemed to appreciate the attention, for, with his powerful paws, he drew himself further into the room.
The girl offered no objection. She paid no heed to what he was doing. Her hand merely rested on his head, and she thought no more about him. Finding himself unrebuffed Neche made further efforts; then, suddenly, he became aware of the other occupants of the room. Quick as a flash his nose was directed towards the old sofa on which they were seated, and his eyes, like two balls of phosphorescent light, gleamed in their direction. He became motionless at once. It seemed as though he were uncertain of something.
He was inclined to resent the presence of these two, but the caress of the soft, warm hand checked any hostile demonstration beyond a whine, half plaintive, half of anger.
The disturbing sound drew Alice’s attention, and she looked over to where Prudence was standing; it was then she encountered the unblinking stare of the hound’s wicked eyes. The sight thrilled her for a moment, nor could she repress a slight shudder. She nudged her companion and drew his attention without speaking. Robb followed the direction of her gaze, and a silence followed whilst he surveyed the strange apparition.
He could only see the dog’s head–the rest of the creature was hidden behind the window curtain–and its enormous size suggested the great body and powerful limbs which remained concealed. To Robb there was a suggestion of hell about the cruel lustre of the relentless eyes.
At last he broke into a little nervous laugh.
“By Jove!” he said. “I thought for the moment I’d got ’em. Gee-whizz! The brute looks like the devil himself. What is it? Whose?”
Without replying, Alice called to her friend.
“Let Neche come in, Prue,” she said. “That is”–dubiously–“if you think it’s safe.” Then she turned to Robb. “He’s so savage that I’m afraid of him. Still, with Prue here, I think he’ll be all right; he’s devoted to her.”
At the sound of the girl’s voice Prudence turned back from the window like one awakening from a dream. Her eyes still had a far-away look in them, and though she had heard the voice it seemed doubtful as to whether she had taken the meaning of the words. For a moment her eyes rested on Alice’s face, then they drooped to the dog at her side, but Alice was forced to repeat her question before the other moved. Then, in silence, she stepped back and summoned the dog to her with an encouraging chirrup. Neche needed no second bidding. There was a scramble and a scraping of sharp claws upon the woodwork, then the animal stood in the room. And his attitude as he eyed the two seated upon the sofa said as plainly as possible, “Well, which one is it to be first?”
Robb felt uneasy. Alice was decidedly alarmed at the dog’s truculent appearance.
But the tension was relieved a moment later by the brute’s own strange behaviour. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Neche plumped down upon his hind-quarters. His pricked ears drooped, and his two fore paws began to beat a sort of tattoo upon the floor. Then followed a broken whine, tremulous and blandishing, and the great head moved from side to side with that curious movement which only dogs use to express their gladness. Then the strange, three-legged beast went further. Down he threw himself full length upon the floor and grovelled effusively, whining and scraping the boards in a perfect fervour of abject delight.
Robb looked hard at the dog. Then he laughed and turned to Alice.
“What is the creature’s name? I didn’t catch it.”
“Neche,” she replied.
Robb held out his hand encouragingly and called the dog by name. The animal continued to squirm but did not offer to come nearer. Every now and then its head was turned back, and the green eyes looked up into Prudence’s face. At last Robb ceased his efforts. His blandishments were ineffectual beyond increasing the dog’s effusive display.
“A husky,” he said, looking across at Prudence. “A bad dog to have about the house. He reminds me of the animals we had up north in our dog-train. They’re devils to handle and as fierce as wild cats. We had one just like him. Unusually big brute. He was our ‘wheeler.’ The most vicious dog of the lot. The resemblance is striking. By Jove!” he went on reminiscently, “he was a sulky, cantankerous cuss. His name was ‘Sitting Bull,’ after the renowned Sioux Indian chief. We had to be very careful of the other dogs on account of his ‘scrapping’ propensities. He killed one poor beast I think we nicknamed him rather appropriately. He was affectionately dubbed ‘Bully.’”
As Robb pronounced the name he held out his hand again and flicked his fingers. The dog rose from his grovelling posture and came eagerly forward, wagging his lank tail. He rubbed his nose against the man’s hand and slowly licked the sun-tanned skin.
Robb’s brows drew together in a pucker of deep perplexity. He looked the animal over long and earnestly, and slowly there crept into his eyes an expression of wondering astonishment. He was interrupted in his inspection by the girl at his side.
“Why, he’s treating you like an old friend, Robb.”
The man sat gazing down upon the wiry coat of the beast.
“Yes,” he said shortly. Then he looked over at Prudence. “Yours?” he went on.
The girl shook her head.
“No, he belongs to Hervey.”
“Um! I wonder where he got him from,” in a meditative tone.
“Somewhere out in the wilds of the Yukon,” put in Alice.
“Ah! The Yukon.” And Robb’s face was serious as he turned towards the window and looked out at the creeping shadows of evening.
There was a pause. Prudence was thinking of anything but the subject of Robb’s inquiries. Alice was curious, but she forbore to question. She had heard her lover’s account of his misadventure in the Alaskan hills, but she saw no connection between the hound and that disastrous affair. But the man’s thoughts were hard at work. Presently he rose to depart.
He bade Prudence good-bye and moved towards the door. The dog remained where he had been standing and looked after him. At the door Robb hesitated, then he turned and looked back.
“Poor old Bully,” he said.
With a bound the dog was at his side. Then the man turned away, and, accompanied by Alice, left the room. In the passage he paused, and Alice saw an expression on his face she had never seen before. He was nervous and excited, and his eyes shone in the half-light.
“Al,” he said slowly, “I know that dog. And his name is Bully. Don’t say anything to anybody. Hervey may be able to tell me something of those who robbed us up in the hills. But on no account must you say anything to him; leave it to me. I shall come here again–soon. Good-bye, little woman.”
That evening as Robb Chillingwood rode back to Ainsley he thought of many things, but chiefly he reviewed the details of that last disastrous journey when he and Grey had traversed the snow-fields of Alaska together.
CHAPTER XVII
THE LAST OF LONELY RANCH
There are moments which come in all lives when calm reflection is powerless to influence the individual acts; when calmness, even in the most phlegmatic natures, is impossible; when a tide of impulse sweeps us on, giving us not even so much as a breathless, momentary pause in which to consider the result of our headlong career. We blunder on against every jagged obstacle, lacerated and bleeding, jolting cruelly from point to point, whither our passions irresistibly drive us. It is a blind, reckless journey, from which there is no escape when the tide sets in. We see our goal ahead, and we fondly believe that because it is ahead we must come to it. We do not consider the awful road we travel, nor the gradual exhaustion which is overtaking us. We do not realize that we must fall by the wayside for lack of strength, nor even, if our strength be sufficient to carry us on to the end, do we ask ourselves, shall we be able to draw aside out of the raging torrent when our goal is reached? or shall we be swept on to the yawning Beyond where, for evermore, we must continue to struggle hopelessly to return? Once give passion unchecked sway, and who can say what the end will be?
It was at such a moment in her life at which Prudence had arrived. Her mind was set upon an object which absorbed all her faculties, all her brain, all her feelings. Had she been able to pause, even for one moment, reason must have asserted itself and she would have understood the folly of what she was doing. But that moment was denied her. All the latent passions of a strong nature had been let loose and she was swept on by their irresistible tide. She believed that she was the appointed avenger of the man she had once loved, and that this duty unfulfilled would be a crime, the stain of which nothing could wipe out. Iredale must be confronted, challenged, and–
And so she came to Lonely Ranch on her self-imposed errand of justice.
The man she sought was not in the house when she came. The valley seemed to be devoid of life as she rode up. But the solitude was almost instantly broken by the appearance of Chintz from the region of the barn. She dispatched him in search of his master and passed into the bachelor sitting-room to await his coming.
She was restless and her nerves were strung to a great tension. Her eyes still shone with that peculiar light which ever seemed to look out of her brother’s. There was no yielding in the set of her mouth. Her resolve disfigured the sweetness which usually characterized her beautiful features.
She stood before the window, looking out upon the shadow-bathed valley. She saw before her the dark wall of foliage which rose to the heights of the Front Hill. Not a living soul was about, only was there a rising wind which disturbed the unbroken forest of pines. She turned abruptly from the view as though she could not bear the solitude which was thus made so apparent. She crossed over to where the bookcase stood against the wall, and glanced in through the glazed doors. But she comprehended nothing of what she saw. She was thinking, thinking, and her mind was in a tumult of hysterical fancies. And she was listening too; listening for a sound–any sound other than that which the wind made. Mechanically she came over to the table and leant against it in an attitude of abstraction. She shivered; she stood up to steady herself and she shivered again. And all the time the frenzied eyes gleamed in their beautiful oval setting, the lips were drawn inwards, and there remained only a sharply-defined line to mark the sweet mouth. Presently her lips parted and she moistened them with her tongue. A fever seemed to be upon her, and mouth and throat were parched.
Suddenly the sound for which she waited came. She darted eagerly to the window and saw Chintz pass round in the direction of the barn. Then she saw the burly figure of the man she was awaiting appear in the clearing fronting the house.
George Iredale came along at a robust gait. He was clad in moleskin riding-breeches, much stained with clay, as though he had been digging; a soft shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up above the elbow; his Stetson hat was adjusted at the correct angle upon his head; and he wore a pair of tan-coloured field boots, much smeared with the signs of toil. He came rapidly towards the house. There was nothing furtive, nothing guilty about this man’s bearing; he came readily to meet his visitor, and his appearance was the confident bearing of a man who has little to fear.
She saw him look towards the window where she stood, and his smile of welcome set her nerves tingling with a sensation she failed to understand. Her hand went round to the pocket of her linen riding-skirt and remained there. She heard his step in the hall; she heard him approach and turn the door handle. As he came into the room she faced him.
“Why, Prudence, this is a delightful–” he began. But she interrupted him coldly.
“One moment,” she said, and her voice was hoarse with the dryness of her throat. “I have not come over for any visit of pleasure, but strictly upon a matter of–of–business. There are some explanations which we both need to make, but more especially you.”
“Yes.”
Iredale was gazing earnestly into the face before him. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her coldness. For the moment he wondered; then, slowly, he began to understand that Hervey had been at work.
“You got my note,” he said, choosing to ignore the result of his observations. “My delay in calling at the farm was unavoidable. I am in the midst of disposing of my ranch. I had not expected that I should have been called upon to do so so soon. I beg that you will forgive me what must seem an unwarrantable delay.”
Prudence’s nerves were so strung that she felt as though she could strike him for his calm words. Her condition demanded the opposition of passion equal to her own. His coolness maddened her. So long had she dwelt upon the accusation Hervey had brought against him that she believed in this man’s guilt. The evidence of her own senses had militated against him, and now she steeled herself in an armour of unbelief. But, in spite of herself, the dictates of her heart were struggling hard to find the joints of her armour. Nor were the struggles lessened now that she stood confronting him. His coolness, though maddening to her, was not without effect. The moral influence he wielded was great.
She backed to the table; then she plunged into the subject of her mission without further preamble. Her eyes stared straight into his, and her tones sounded incisively in the stillness of the room.
“I little knew the man whom I was listening to when he offered me his life, nor had I an idea of how near I was to the man who inspired the words which have appeared in the paper–the words which were the last Leslie Grey ever uttered. What must have been your feelings when I told you that I knew their author to be a murderer?” Then, with scathing bitterness: “But your feelings must have long since been dead–dead as the poor creature you so wantonly sent to his reckoning. The time has come for you to defend yourself; that is, if defence you can offer. No flimsy excuse or extenuation will cover you. Even the Scriptures teach us that the penalty is ‘a life for a life.’ Yours is the hand that struck Leslie down, and now you must face the consequences of your wanton act.”
Iredale’s quiet eyes never attempted to avoid the girl’s direct gaze, nor did he flinch as the accusation fell from her lips. Never was he more alert, never more gently disposed towards this half-demented creature than at that moment. He recognized the hand that had been at work, and he laid no blame upon her. His feelings were of sorrow–sorrow for the woman he loved, and sorrow for himself. But his thoughts were chiefly for her. He knew, as she had said, that his time had come.
“So Hervey has been to you to sell the discovery which I rejected at the price he asked. He told you that I was a smuggler; that the announcement in the paper was mine. And did he tell you that I was the murderer of Leslie Grey? Or did your heart prompt you to that conclusion?”
The girl supported herself against the table with one hand, and the other was still in the pocket behind her. Iredale noted these things without moving his eyes from her face.
“Hervey told me the facts and the inevitable proof they bore. Nor was his statement exaggerated. My own reason told me that.”
The man sighed. He had hoped that the work had been only of the brother’s doings. He had hoped that she had come bearing Hervey’s accusation and not her own.
“Go on,” he said.
“I know you for what you really are, George Iredale. And now I have come to you to give you the chance of defending yourself. No man must be condemned without a hearing. Neither shall you. The evidence against you is overwhelming; I can see no escape for you. But speak, if you have anything to say in your defence, and I will listen. I charge you with the murder of Leslie Grey.”
Just for one brief moment Iredale felt a shiver pass through his body. The icy tones of the girl’s voice, the seemingly dispassionate words filled him with a horror unspeakable. Then he pulled himself together. He was on his defence before the one person in the world from whose condemnation he shrank. He did not answer at once. He wished to make no mistake. When at last he spoke his words came slowly as though he weighed well each syllable before he gave it utterance.
“With one exception all that Hervey has doubtless said of me is true. I am a smuggler; I inspired that line in the paper; but I am no–murderer. Leslie Grey’s life was sacred to me at the time if only for the reason that he was your affianced husband. I loved you at that time as I have loved you for years, and all my thoughts and wishes were for your happiness. It would have made you happy to have married Grey, therefore I wished that you should marry him. I am quite unchanged. I will tell you now what neither you nor Hervey knows, even though it makes my case look blacker. I knew that Grey was on my track. I knew that he had discovered my secret. How he had done so I cannot say. He quarrelled with me, and, in the heat of his anger, told me of his intentions. It was late one night at a card-party at your house, and just before he was so foully murdered. No doubt you, or any right-minded person for that matter, will say that this evidence only clinches the case against me. But, in spite of it, I assert my innocence. Amongst my many sins the crime Hervey charges me with”–he purposely avoided associating the charge with her–“is not numbered. Can I hope that you will believe me?”
The gentle tones in which the burly man spoke, the earnest fearlessness which looked out from his quiet eyes, gave infinite weight to all he said. Prudence shook her head slowly, but the fire in her eyes was less bright, and the voice of her own heart crying out began to make itself heard in the midst of her chaotic thought.
She tried to stiffen herself for the task she had undertaken, but the result was not all she sought Still, she replied coldly–
“How can I believe with all the black evidence against you? You, in all this region, were the one man interested in Leslie’s death. His life meant penitentiary to you; his death meant liberty. Your own words tell me that. How can I believe such a denial as you now make? Tell me, have you no proof to offer? Account for the day on which Leslie met his death; prove your movements upon that day.”