Keith swept his glance up and down the street without results. Surely,
Hawley and his companion could not have disappeared so suddenly. They
had turned to the right, he was certain as to that, and he pushed
through the crowd of men around the theatre entrance, and hastened to
overtake them. He found nothing to overtake--nowhere along that stretch
of street, illumined by window lights, was there any sign of a man and
woman walking together. He stopped bewildered, staring blindly about,
failing utterly to comprehend this mysterious vanishing. What could it
mean? What had happened? How could they have disappeared so completely
during that single moment he had waited to speak to Fairbain? The man's
heart beat like a trip-hammer with apprehension, a sudden fear for Hope
taking possession of him. Surely the girl would never consent to enter
any of those dens along the way, and Hawley would not dare resort to
force in the open street. The very thought seemed preposterous, and yet,
with no other supposition possible, he entered these one after the other
in hasty search, questioning the inmates sharply, only to find himself
totally baffled--Hawley and Hope had vanished as though swallowed by the
earth. He explored dark passage-ways between the scattered buildings,
rummaging about recklessly, but came back to the street again without
reward.
Could they have gone down the other side, in the deeper shadows, and
thus reached the hotel more quickly than it seemed to him possible?
There was hardly a chance that this could be true, and yet Keith grasped
at it desperately, cursing himself for having wasted time. Five minutes
later, breathless, almost speechless with anxiety, he startled the
clerk.
“Has Miss Waite come in? Miss Hope Waite?”
“Blamed if I know,” retorted the other, indifferently. “Can't for the
life of me tell those two females apart. One of them passed through
'bout ten minutes ago; Doc Fairbain was with her. Another party just
went upstairs hunting Miss Maclaire, and as they haven't come down, I
reckon it must have been her--anything wrong?”
“I'm not sure yet,” shortly. “Who was this other person?”
“Old fellow with white hair and whiskers--swore like a pirate--had the
sheriff along with him.”
It came to Keith in a flash--it was Waite. Perhaps Christie knew.
Perhaps the General knew. Certainly something of importance was
crystallizing in the actress' room which might help to explain all else.
He rushed up the stairs, barely waiting to rap once at the closed door
before he pressed it open. The sight within held him silent, waiting
opportunity to blurt out his news. Here, also, was tragedy, intense,
compelling, which for the instant seemed to even overshadow the fate
of the girl he loved. There were three men present, and the woman. She
stood clutching the back of a chair, white-faced and open-eyed, with
Fairbain slightly behind her, one hand grasping her arm, the other
clinched, his jaw set pugnaciously. Facing these two was Waite, and a
heavily built man wearing a brown beard, closely trimmed.
“You'd better acknowledge it,” Waite snapped out, with a quick glance at
the newcomer. “It will make it all the easier for you. I tell you this
is the sheriff, and we've got you both dead to rights.”
“But,” she urged, “why should I be arrested? I have done nothing.”
“You're an adventuress--a damn adventuress--Hawley's mistress,
probably--a--”
“Now, see here, Waite,” and Fairbain swung himself forward, “you drop
that. Miss Maclaire is my friend, and if you say another word I'll smash
you, sheriff or no sheriff.”
Waite glared at him.
“You old fool,” he snorted, “what have you got to do with this?”
“I've got this to do with it, you'll find--the woman is to be treated
with respect or I'll blow your damned obstinate head off.”
The sheriff laid his hand on Waite's shoulder.
“Come,” he said, firmly, “this is no way to get at it. We want to know
certain facts, and then we can proceed lawfully. Let me question the
woman.”
The two older men still faced one another belligerently, but Keith saw
Christie draw the doctor back from between her and the sheriff.
“You may ask me anything you please,” she announced, quietly. “I am sure
these gentlemen will not fight here in my room.”
“Very well, Miss Maclaire. It will require only a moment. How long have
you known this man Hawley?”
“Merely a few days--since I arrived in Sheridan.”
“But you were in communication with him before that?”
The pleasant voice and quiet demeanor of the sheriff seemed to yield the
girl confidence and courage.
“Yes, he had written me two or three letters.”
“You met him here then by appointment?”
“He was to come to Sheridan, and explain to me more fully what his
letters had only hinted at.”
“You possessed no previous knowledge of his purpose?”
“Only the barest outline--details were given me later.”
“Will you tell us briefly exactly what Hawley told you?”
The girl's bewildered eyes wandered from face to face, then returned to
the waiting sheriff.
“May--may I sit down?” she asked.
“Most certainly; and don't be afraid, for really we wish to be your
friends.”
She sank down into the chair, and even Keith could see how her slender
form trembled. There was a moment's silence.
“Believe me, gentlemen,” she began, falteringly, “if there is any fraud,
any conspiracy, I have borne no conscious part in it. Mr. Hawley came
to me saying a dying man had left with him certain papers, naming one,
Phyllis Gale, as heiress to a very large estate in North Carolina, left
by her grandfather in trust. He said the girl had been taken West, when
scarcely two years old, by her father in a fit of drunken rage, and then
deserted by him in St. Louis.”
“You--you saw the papers?” Waite broke in.
“Yes, those that Hawley had; he gave them to me to keep for him.” She
crossed to her trunk, and came back, a manilla envelope in her hand.
Waite opened it hastily, running his eyes over the contents.
“The infernal scoundrel!” he exclaimed, hotly. “These were stolen from
me at Carson City.”
“Let me see them.” The sheriff ran them over, merely glancing at the
endorsements.
“Just as you represented, Waite,” he said, slowly. “A copy of the will,
your commission as guardian, and memoranda of identification. Well, Miss
Maclaire, how did you happen to be so easily convinced that you were the
lost girl?”
“Mr. Hawley brought me a picture which he said was of this girl's
half-sister; the resemblance was most startling. This, with the fact
that I have never known either father or mother or my real name, and
that my earlier life was passed in St. Louis, sufficed to make me
believe he must be right.”
“You--you--” Waite choked, leaning forward.
“You don't know your real name?”
“No, I do not,” her lips barely forming the words. “The woman who
brought me up never told me.”
“Who--who was the woman?”
“A Mrs. Raymond--Sue Raymond--she was on the stage, and died in
Texas--San Antonio, I think.”
Waite swore audibly, his eyes never once deserting the girl's face.
“Hawley told you to say that?”
“No, he did not,” she protested warmly. “It was never even mentioned
between us--at least, not Sue Raymond's name. What difference can that
make?”
He stepped forward, one hand flung out, and Fairbain sprang forward
instantly between them, mistaking the action.
“Hands off there, Waite,” he commanded sternly. “Whatever she says
goes.”
“You blundering old idiot,” the other exploded. “I'm not going to hurt
her; stand aside, will you!”
He reached the startled girl, thrust aside the dark hair combed low over
the neck, swung her about toward the light, and stared at a birthmark
behind her ear. No one spoke, old Waite seemingly stricken dumb, the
woman shrinking away from him as though she feared he was crazed.
“What is it?” asked the sheriff, sternly.
Slowly Waite turned about and faced him, running the sleeve of his coat
across his eyes. He appeared dazed, confounded.
“My God, it's all right,” he said, with a choke in the throat.
“She's--she's the girl.”
Christie stared at him, her lips parted, unable to grasp what it all
meant.
“You mean I--I am actually Phyllis Gale? That--that there is no
mistake?”
He nodded, not yet able to put It more clearly into words. She swayed as
though about to faint, and Fairbain caught her, but she slipped through
his arms, and fell upon her knees, her face buried in her hands upon the
chair.
“Oh, thank God,” she sobbed, “thank God! I know who I am! I know who I
am!”