somehow killed the officers and made off, and soon afterwards Mr. Lloyd, sickened by the whole business, sold his ranch cheaply to the disputatious neighbor and retired to Chicagoa.
Lee had appeared in the witness box during the trial, because he had been present when one of the ranch hands was killed, and he was asked to testify to the character of young Jimmy Partlett too. McConville's bony face and lean frame, his deep-set black eyes and giant hands, were unmistakable, and the way he stared across the court at the witnesses for the prosecution— with a measuring sort of look, a look of cold, slow, brutal calculation with nothing human in it at all—was unforgettable.
And now here he was on Novy Odense, guarding a politician, and Lee had been damn fool enough to provoke him.
In the middle of the night, Lee got up to visit the bathroom. As he felt his way down the corridor in the dark, wrapped in his long coat against the cold, Hester whispered, "Lee—listen . . ."
He stood still. From behind the door on his left there came the sound of muffled, passionate sobbing.
"Miss Lund?" Lee whispered.
"That's her," Hester said.
Lee didn't like to leave anyone in distress, but he considered it might distress her even more to know that her trouble had been overheard. He continued on his way, shivering, and then tiptoed back, hoping the floor wouldn't creak and disturb her.
But when he reached his door he heard the sound of a handle turning behind him, and a narrow beam of candlelight shone into the corridor as a door opened.
He turned to see Miss Lund in a nightgown, her hair unpinned, her eyes red, and her cheeks wet. Her expression was inscrutable.
"Apologies if I disturbed you, Miss Lund," he said quietly. He looked down so as not to embarrass her.
"Mr. Scoresby . . . Mr. Scoresby, I hoped it was you. Forgive me, but may I ask for your advice?" she said, and then, awkwardly, "There is no one else I can . . . I think you are a gentleman."
Her voice was low—he'd forgotten that; and it was steady and sweet.
"Why, of course you may," Lee said.
She bit her lip and looked up and down the empty corridor.
"Not here," she said. "Please could you . . . ?"
She stood aside, opening her door further.
They were both speaking very quietly. Lee picked up Hester and entered the narrow bedroom. It was as cold as his, but it smelt of lavender rather than smokeleaf, and her clothes were neatly folded and hung instead of being strewn across the floor.
"How can I help you, miss?"
She put the candle on the mantelpiece over the empty grate, and closed the journal that lay next to the pen and bottle of ink on the little round table with the lace cloth on it. Then she pulled out the one chair for Lee to sit on.
He did so, still not wanting to look her in the face in case she was embarrassed by her tears, but then he realized that if she had the courage to initiate this strange encounter, he should honor that by not patronizing her. He lifted his head to look at her, tall and slender and still, with the dim light glittering on her cheeks.
Lee waited for her question. She seemed to be wondering how to frame it. Her hands were clasped in front of her mouth, and she was looking at the floor. Finally she said:
"There is something I have been asked to do, and I am afraid of saying yes in case it would be better to say no. I mean, not better for me, but better for—for the person who asked me. I am not very experienced in such matters, Mr. Scoresby. I suppose few people are, before it happens. And I am alone here and there is no one to ask for advice. I am not putting this very well. I am so sorry to trouble you."
"Don't apologize, Miss Lund. I don't know if I can give you advice that would be any good to you, but I'll sure try. Seems to me that this person who asked you to do something hopes you'll do it, or they wouldn't have asked. And . . . and it seems to me that the best judge of whether it would be good for them is them. I don't
Lee had appeared in the witness box during the trial, because he had been present when one of the ranch hands was killed, and he was asked to testify to the character of young Jimmy Partlett too. McConville's bony face and lean frame, his deep-set black eyes and giant hands, were unmistakable, and the way he stared across the court at the witnesses for the prosecution— with a measuring sort of look, a look of cold, slow, brutal calculation with nothing human in it at all—was unforgettable.
And now here he was on Novy Odense, guarding a politician, and Lee had been damn fool enough to provoke him.
In the middle of the night, Lee got up to visit the bathroom. As he felt his way down the corridor in the dark, wrapped in his long coat against the cold, Hester whispered, "Lee—listen . . ."
He stood still. From behind the door on his left there came the sound of muffled, passionate sobbing.
"Miss Lund?" Lee whispered.
"That's her," Hester said.
Lee didn't like to leave anyone in distress, but he considered it might distress her even more to know that her trouble had been overheard. He continued on his way, shivering, and then tiptoed back, hoping the floor wouldn't creak and disturb her.
But when he reached his door he heard the sound of a handle turning behind him, and a narrow beam of candlelight shone into the corridor as a door opened.
He turned to see Miss Lund in a nightgown, her hair unpinned, her eyes red, and her cheeks wet. Her expression was inscrutable.
"Apologies if I disturbed you, Miss Lund," he said quietly. He looked down so as not to embarrass her.
"Mr. Scoresby . . . Mr. Scoresby, I hoped it was you. Forgive me, but may I ask for your advice?" she said, and then, awkwardly, "There is no one else I can . . . I think you are a gentleman."
Her voice was low—he'd forgotten that; and it was steady and sweet.
"Why, of course you may," Lee said.
She bit her lip and looked up and down the empty corridor.
"Not here," she said. "Please could you . . . ?"
She stood aside, opening her door further.
They were both speaking very quietly. Lee picked up Hester and entered the narrow bedroom. It was as cold as his, but it smelt of lavender rather than smokeleaf, and her clothes were neatly folded and hung instead of being strewn across the floor.
"How can I help you, miss?"
She put the candle on the mantelpiece over the empty grate, and closed the journal that lay next to the pen and bottle of ink on the little round table with the lace cloth on it. Then she pulled out the one chair for Lee to sit on.
He did so, still not wanting to look her in the face in case she was embarrassed by her tears, but then he realized that if she had the courage to initiate this strange encounter, he should honor that by not patronizing her. He lifted his head to look at her, tall and slender and still, with the dim light glittering on her cheeks.
Lee waited for her question. She seemed to be wondering how to frame it. Her hands were clasped in front of her mouth, and she was looking at the floor. Finally she said:
"There is something I have been asked to do, and I am afraid of saying yes in case it would be better to say no. I mean, not better for me, but better for—for the person who asked me. I am not very experienced in such matters, Mr. Scoresby. I suppose few people are, before it happens. And I am alone here and there is no one to ask for advice. I am not putting this very well. I am so sorry to trouble you."
"Don't apologize, Miss Lund. I don't know if I can give you advice that would be any good to you, but I'll sure try. Seems to me that this person who asked you to do something hopes you'll do it, or they wouldn't have asked. And . . . and it seems to me that the best judge of whether it would be good for them is them. I don't
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