“A man by the name of Maverick had charge of it when I was out here years ago; I do not know whether he is still here.”
“He is; do you know him? Did you ever have any business with him personally?”
“Yes, I had him in my employ years ago, in the east, and was obliged to discharge him for dishonesty.”
“Thereby incurring his life-long hatred and enmity, so that years afterward, he sought to wreak his revenge upon you by stealing from the wrecked train, where your daughter lost her life, the little child who would otherwise have been your solace in that time of bereavement.”
“Everard!” exclaimed Mr. Cameron, “are you sure you are correct? What proof have you of this?”
“The proofs were not discovered until recently,” Houston replied, “although we knew that they existed, but now this girl has found a letter from Maverick’s wife confessing the whole crime, and stating that it was committed through a spirit of revenge; and she also has in her possession the articles of clothing she wore at the time she was stolen, together with a locket containing her mother’s picture and her own name,––Marjorie Lyle Washburn.”
“That is enough,” said Mr. Cameron briefly, “let me see her, Everard.”
Houston stepped within the house, reappearing a few moments later, with Lyle. Very beautiful she looked as she came forward in the soft radiance of the moonlight, a child-like confidence shining in the lovely eyes.
Mr. Cameron rose to meet her, and taking both her hands within his own, he stood for an instant, gazing into the beautiful face.
“My dear child, my own Edna!” he said in broken tones, folding her closely within his arms, “Thank God for another child restored to us from the dead!”