The opportunity thus so unexpectedly afforded was not one to be wasted,
and Keith accepted it with swift determination. The expression in
the woman's face was scarcely one of welcome, yet his purpose was
sufficiently serious to cause him to ignore this with easy confidence in
himself.
“I am, indeed, most fortunate to discover you alone, Miss Maclaire,” he
said, avoiding her eyes by a swift glance over the table, “and evidently
at a time when you are only beginning your meal. May I join you?”
She hesitated for an instant, debating with herself, and as quickly
deciding on disagreeable tactics.
“I presume this is a public table, and I consequently have little choice
in the matter, if you insist,” she replied, her voice more civil than
her words. “Still, Mr. Keith, I am not accustomed to associating with
criminals.”
He smiled, holding his temper in check, more than ever determined to
win.
“Then, possibly, you may rather welcome a new diversion. I can assure
you our criminals out here are the most interesting portion of our
population. I wish I might have your permission.”
Standing there before her, bare-headed, his slightly tanned face strong
and manly, his gray eyes filled with humor, Miss Maclaire recognized
again that he was not of the common herd, and the innate coquetry of her
nature obtained mastery. What harm could it do for her to chat with him
for half an hour? It was better than eating a lonely meal, and, besides,
she might learn something of value to report to Hawley. Her own eyes
brightened, the slight frown disappearing.
“You are certainly an illustration of your theory,” she said pleasantly.
“I shall have to say yes, but, really, I did not suppose you would enjoy
being ranked among that class.”
He drew out a chair, and sat down facing her, leaning slightly forward
upon the intervening table.
“Nor would I, only I recognize you do not comprehend. The source of your
information is a bit polluted, Miss Maclaire. There are those whose good
opinion I do not seek, and you should not form your decisions on the
unsupported testimony of a personal enemy.”
“Oh, indeed,” rather resenting the words, and already regretful of her
compliance. “Surely I have as much reason to trust my informant as I
have you. He, at least, has proven himself a friend.”
“I wish I could feel as fully assured of that as you do,” he returned
honestly. “I would then have every temptation to meddle further taken
away from me. Do you realize that my interest is very largely upon your
account?”
“Oh, no,” laughing, “I couldn't believe that. I--I have heard it
whispered it might be because of the other girl.”
“The other girl!” in complete surprise at this swift return.
“Yes, sir,” conscious of having attained the upper hand. “Miss Hope
Waite.”
“Some more of Mr. Hawley's fancies,” he retorted, perplexed that so much
should be suspected. “Have you seen her?”
“Why, of course. I am a woman, Mr. Keith, with all the natural curiosity
of my sex. In this case I had special reason to be interested. One does
not meet her counterpart every day.”
“The resemblance between you is certainly most striking.”
“Sufficiently so,” she said slowly, her eyes on his face, “to abundantly
confirm in my mind the truth of all that has been told me.”
The waiter approached with the orders, and the two remained in silence
until he had deposited his load upon the table, and departed. She was
watching the face opposite through lowered lashes that veiled her eyes,
but Keith was first to break the stillness.
“I wish I might be told what that was.”
“To what do you refer?” apparently forgetful as to where their
conversation had been broken.
“To Hawley's proposition.”
“No doubt,” her lips smiling, “but you have come to the wrong market,
Mr. Jack Keith.”
“Yet,” he insisted earnestly, “if this is all straight, with no fraud
concealed anywhere, if you have the proofs in your hands, why are you
afraid to talk openly? The very manner in which Hawley works should
convince you he is himself afraid to face the truth.”
“No, you are wrong. There are perfectly satisfactory reasons why we
should for the present keep our plans secret. There are details yet to
be decided upon, and Mr. Hawley's present objection to publicity is only
ordinary prudence.”
She leaned toward him, her fingers playing nervously with a knife.
“Mr. Keith, I cannot help but like you, and I also feel most kindly
disposed toward Mr. Hawley. I wish in this I was no longer compelled
to consider you an enemy to us both. There is no reason why I should,
except for your blind prejudice against this other man who is my friend.
I know you have some cause, for he has told me the entire story, yet I
am sure he did no more than his actual duty. He let me realize how very
sorry he was that the marshal at Carson City had called upon him for
assistance.”
“Who? Hawley?” Keith questioned, hardly trusting his own ears.
“Yes; indeed he is a very different man from what you have been led
to believe. I know he is a gambler, and all that, but really it is not
altogether his fault. He told me about his life, and it was very sad.
He was driven from home when only a boy, and naturally drifted into evil
company. His one ambition is, to break away, and redeem himself. I am
so anxious to help him, and wish you could realize his purpose, as I do,
and become his friend. Won't you, for my sake? Why, even in this affair
he has not the slightest mercenary purpose--he has only thought of what
was rightfully mine.”
Keith listened, feeling to the full the woman's earnestness, the
impossibility of changing her fixed conviction. Hawley had planted his
seed deep and well in fruitful soil.
“You make a strong and charming advocate, Miss Maclaire,” he returned,
feeling the necessity of saying something. “I should like to have you
equally earnest on my side. Yet it will be hard to convince me that
'Black Bart' is the paragon of virtue you describe. I wish I might
believe for your sake. Did he also explain how he came into possession
of these papers?”
“Oh, yes, indeed; there is no secret about that. They were entrusted to
him by an old man whom he discovered sick in Independence, and who died
in his rooms three years ago. Mr. Hawley has been searching ever since
for the old man's grand-daughter. It is remarkable how he was finally
convinced that I was the one.”
“A photograph, was it not?”
A gleam of sudden suspicion appeared in the brown eyes, a slight change
in facial expression.
“That was a clue, yes, but far from being all. But why should I tell you
this?--you believe nothing I say.”
“I believe that you believe; that you are fully convinced of the justice
of your claim. Perhaps it is just, but I am suspicious of anything which
Bart Hawley has a hand in. Miss Christie, you really make me wish to
retain your friendship, but I cannot do so if the cost includes faith
in Hawley. Do you know that is not even his name--that he lives under an
alias?”
“Is there anything strange in that out here?” she asked stoutly. “I told
you how deeply he regretted his life; that alone would be sufficient
cause for him to drop his family name. Did you ever learn his true
name?”
He was not sure--only as Neb had reported what Waite had called the man,
yet ventured a direct reply.
“Bartlett, I believe--he uses it now as a prefix.”
“Bartlett!--Bartlett!” her hands clasping, and unclasping nervously.
“Why, what a strange coincidence!”
“How? What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing--nothing,” biting her lips in vexation. “The name merely
recalled something. But really I must go, Mr. Keith, or I shall be late
at the theatre. You have not attended since I came?”
“No,” arising from the table with her. “However, I have heard you sing
before, and hope I may again.”
“How tenderly you dwell on that word 'hope,'” she said banteringly, “it
almost makes me envious.”
“Your resemblance almost makes me forget.”
“But not quite?”
“No, not quite,” he confessed, smiling back into her quizzing eyes.
They went out into the hall together, only to meet with Doctor Fairbain
at the door. The latter stared at the two with some embarrassment, for
a moment forgetful of his purpose. His gaze settled on the face of the
lady.
“Always getting you two mixed,” he blurted forth. “Never saw such
resemblance--positively uncanny--same hotel too means trouble--this Miss
Waite?”
“No, Doctor; I am Miss Maclaire.”
“Ought to have known it--if I knew as much about faces as I do about
anatomy never would make such mistake--very sorry--what fooled me was
seeing you with Keith--thought he was after the other one--gay dog
though--never satisfied--was hunting after you.”
“After me?” evidently amused.
“Certainly--you--went to the room--then to the clerk--said you were in
at supper--just occurred to me streets here bad at night--thought
I'd ask you to let me escort you to theatre and back--a bit of lunch
later--” he glanced suspiciously at Keith--“probably got here too late.”
“Well really you have, Doctor,” she replied sweetly, veiling her eyes
to hide their laughter. “But I can assure you it is not Mr. Keith,”
courtesying slightly to the latter, “for he has not honored me; we
merely met by chance at the table. I am sure I should enjoy your company
exceedingly, but to-night I must plead a previous engagement.”
“Ah--ah, some other night?”
“With pleasure, yes.”
The doctor faded away into the office, not wholly satisfied because
Keith still lingered. Miss Christie extended her hand.
“Isn't he a funny man? But I do like him--someway I like so many people
whom perhaps I ought not, including you, Mr. Jack Keith. Please think
over what I told you about Mr. Hawley, won't you?”
“Certainly; you have given me food for thought. I presume he is to be
your escort?”
She bowed, evidently resenting the question.
“Yes, and it may interest you to know that he has something of the
utmost importance to tell me to-night--he has actually seen my guardian.
Don't you wish you could be there?”
She gave him a tantalizing smile, withdrawing her hand, and running up
the stairs before he could answer. Over the railing of the landing she
glanced down, and then disappeared.