She believed that in losing
his heart the poor fellow had lost his wits also. Yet she was sensible
that love for her lay at the root of his distress. And his pain, for
his suffering was pitiful to behold, puckered her brows, twisted her
lips. With a soft cry she touched timidly his shoulder.
"If you think," she smiled faintly, "that because we've only known
each other a few hours, I----"
Jeff laughed. The laugh hurt the girl, so that she shrank from him. So
engrossed were the pair that neither marked Sillett as he opened the
door of the hut. He advanced a couple of steps, smoking a pipe, and
then paused, astonished, as Jeff's next words reached him.
"Look at here," he burst out. "That story----It's my own story. I left
San Lorenzo yesterday afternoon to arrest your father. The sheriff an'
me knew he was somewhere in these foothills."
"You have come to arrest--Dad?"
"That's it."
She stared at him confusedly, trying to recall his story. Jeff waited.
"You called him a thief. Dad--a thief! How dare you? How dare you? It's
a lie, or--or," she faltered, "or a mistake."
"No mistake," said Jeff wretchedly.
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