"It was you,
after the promises you made me to live straight always--for
my sake?" Her voice trembled with emotion. The man could
see that she suffered, and yet he felt his own anguish, too.
"But you are married," he said. "I saw it in the papers.
What do you care, now, Barbara? I'm nothing to you."
"I'm not married, Billy," she cried. "I couldn't marry Mr.
Mallory. I tried to make myself believe that I could; but at last
I knew that I did not love him and never could, and I
wouldn't marry a man I didn't love.
"I never dreamed that it was you here, Billy," she went on.
"I came to ask you about Mr. Bridge. I wanted to know if he
escaped, or if--if--oh, this awful country! They think no
more of human life here than a butcher thinks of the life of
the animal he dresses."
A sudden light illumined Billy's mind. Why had it not
occurred to him before? This was Bridge's Penelope! The
woman he loved was loved by his best friend. And she had
sent a messenger to him, to Billy, to save her lover. She had
come here to the office tonight to question a stranger--a man
she thought an outlaw and a robber--because she could not
rest without word from the man she loved. Billy stiffened. He
was hurt to the bottom of his heart; but he did not blame
Bridge--it was fate.
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