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Beelzebub exerted himself to explain.

“Mr. Curtis away, so Beelzebub creep up close and look in. But the white man see Beelzebub and curse; so Beelzebub go away again.”

“And that is the man you thought Boss killed?” Sybil questioned, relief and fear strangely mingled within her.

Her brain was beginning to whirl, but with all her strength she controlled it. Now or never would she know the truth.

Beelzebub was scared by the question.

“Missis won’t tell Boss?” he begged.

“No, no,” she said impatiently. “When will you learn that I never repeat things? Now, Beelzebub, I want you to do something for me. Can you remember? You are to ask Mr. Curtis to tell you the white man’s name. Say that Boss–do you understand?–say that Boss wants to know! And then come back as fast as you possibly can, before Boss gets home to-night, and tell me!”

She repeated these instructions many times over till it seemed impossible that he could make any mistake. And then she watched him go, and set herself with a heart like lead to face the interminable day.

She thought the hours would never pass, so restless was she, so continuous the torment of doubt that vexed her soul. There were times when she felt that if the thing she feared were true, it would kill her. If her husband–the man whom, in spite of almost every instinct, she had learnt to love–had deceived her, if he had played a double game to win her, if, in short, the man he had fought at Bowker Creek were Robin Wentworth, then she felt as if life for her were over. She might continue to exist, indeed, but the heart within her would be dead. There would be nothing left her but the grey ruins of that which had scarcely begun to be happiness.

She tried hard to compose herself, but all her strength could not still the wild fluttering of her nerves through the long-drawn-out suspense of that dreadful day. At every sound she hastened to the door to look for Beelzebub, long before he could possibly return. At the striking of every hour she strained her ears to listen.

But when at last she heard the hoof-beats that told of the negro’s approach she felt that she could not go again; she lacked the physical strength to seek him and hear the truth.

For a time she sat quite still, gathering all her forces for the ordeal. Then at length she compelled herself, and rose.

Beelzebub was grooming his horse. He looked up at her approach and grinned.

“Well, Beelzebub,” she said through her white lips, “have you seen Mr. Curtis?”

“Yes, missis.” Beelzebub rolled his eyes intelligently. He seemed unaware of the tragedy in the English girl’s drawn face.

“And the white man?” she said.

“Mr. Curtis think the white man die soon,” said Beelzebub.

“Ah!” She pressed her hand tightly against her heart. She felt as if its throbbing would choke her. “And–his name?” she said.

Beelzebub paused and opened his eyes to their widest extent. He was making a supreme effort, and the result was monstrous. But Sybil did not quail; she scarcely saw him.

“His name?” she said; and again, raising her voice, “His name?”

The whole world seemed to rock while she waited, but she stood firm in the midst of chaos. Her whole soul was concentrated upon Beelzebub’s reply.

It came at last with the effect of something uttered from an immense distance that was yet piercingly distinct.

“Went–” said Beelzebub, and paused; then, with renewed effort, “Wentworth.”

And Sybil turned from him, shrinking as though something evil had touched her, and walked stiffly back into the house. She had known it all day long!

XIII

She never knew afterwards how long a time elapsed between the confirmation of her doubts and the sudden starting to life of a new resolution within her. It came upon her unexpectedly, striking through the numbness of her despair, nerving her to action–the memory of her dream and whence that dream had sprung. Robin Wentworth still lived. It might be he would know her. It might even be that he was wanting her. She would go to him.