Alan Law might now be considered safe from further persecution, since there remained not one soul loyal enough to Seneca Trine to prosecute his private war of vengeance. And though that aged monomaniac had means whereby he might purchase other scoundrels, Judith was determined that he should never again have an opportunity to do so. If there were any justice in the land—if there were any alienists capable of discriminating between Trine's apparent sanity and his deep-rooted mania—then surely not many more days should pass into history without witnessing his consignment to an institution for the criminally insane.
She, Judith, would see to that, and then. …
She made a small gesture of resignation to her destiny. What became of her no longer mattered, so that Alan were made happy in such happiness as he coveted.
With the utmost care she rose from the bed, crept to the door of the room (now recognized as the quarters of the foreman of the hydraulic mining outfit) and out into the room adjoining. And there, pulling the door to gently behind her, she paused and stood in tense-strung contemplation of the man she loved—Alan Law—asleep in a chair beside a table, his head pillowed on his arms.
This was leave-taking between him and her—and he would never know.
