The ice of despair was a frozen dagger in her breast.  Even before the chance came for a talk with Simeon Harp she made up her mind what to do.  It would be a cruel wrench, but there was nothing else.  She could not face Nick’s look of loathing, even though gratitude for the past should close his lips upon his knowledge, and upon his secret thoughts of her.  To go away, far away, this very hour, before he could come, would be a confession of guilt and of utter defeat; but to Carmen, crushed and hopeless and ashamed, it was the only thing to do.  She would go and never come back.  She would live in the East, or, better still, in Europe, and sell the hateful ranch.  She had received many tempting offers since her husband’s death, and through her lawyers she would accept one that was still open.  Life here would be too hateful with Nick for a silent enemy; Nick married by and by, perhaps, to the other woman.

The excitement of her decision kept Carmen from a physical collapse.  Quickly, if a little confusedly, she thought out a plan.  There would, of course, be a question of insurance for the dead and injured cattle, she said to the elderly foreman who had taken Nick’s place on the ranch.  She would go to San Francisco at once.  No use to point out that it was unnecessary.  She wished to go.  That was enough.  And she gave directions to every one what was to be done in her absence, for she might be away some days.  She would not take her maid.  She preferred to travel alone.  And when some question was asked later by one of the house servants about the guest, Mrs. May, Carmen answered:  “She has been suddenly called away from here by telegram.  I don’t think she’ll be coming back to the house.  There’ll be a message for that Irish girl of hers by and by, I expect.  Anyhow, I can’t trouble about them now.  Their affairs must take care of themselves.”

Mariette, Carmen’s French maid, hurriedly and sulkily packed enough things to last her mistress for a week; and by the time the trunk and bag were ready the carriage was waiting to take Mrs. Gaylor into Bakersfield.  Everybody knew that no train would leave Kern for San Francisco until night, but the imperious lady was in no mood to receive extraneous information.  She had said something about seeing a lawyer in Bakersfield.  If she chose to waste hours there it was her business, not that of the household.

But driving to the town, Carmen decided not to go to San Francisco by that night’s train.  She had had time to reflect a little, not only upon what had happened, but upon what was likely to happen.  If Angela May suspected the truth—­and Carmen’s conscience told her that this was more than probable—­she would not go back to the ranch.  Nick would not let her go there, even if she wished it.  He would send for or fetch the Irish maid and the luggage, while Mrs. May—­already engaged to marry him, perhaps—­waited at his place, or at a Bakersfield hotel.  In any case it was almost certain that “the woman” (as Carmen called Angela always, in her mind) would travel to San Francisco that night.  And it seemed likely to Mrs. Gaylor that Nick would go with her and the maid.  Carmen could not risk an encounter in the train.