“It will bring father back,” said Christie; “he won't leave us here alone; and then together we must come to some understanding with him—with THEM—for somehow I feel as if this house belonged to us no longer.”
Her surmise was not far wrong. When Mr. Carr arrived hurriedly from Sacramento the next evening, he found the house deserted. His daughters were gone; there were indications that they had arrived, and, for some reason, suddenly departed. The vague fear that had haunted his guilty soul after receiving their letter, and during his breathless journey, now seemed to be realized. He was turning from the empty house, whose reproachful solitude frightened him, when he was confronted on the threshold by the figure of Fairfax Munroe.
“I came to the stage office to meet you,” he said; “you must have left the stage at the summit.”
“I did,” said Carr angrily. “I was anxious to meet my daughters quickly, to know the reason of their foolish alarm, and to know also who had been frightening them. Where are they?”
“They are safe in the old cabin beyond, that has been put up ready to receive them again,” said Fairfax quietly.
“But what is the meaning of this? Why are they not here?” demanded Carr, hiding his agitation in a burst of querulous rage.
“Do YOU ask, Mr. Carr?” said Fairfax sadly. “Did you expect them to remain here until the sheriff took possession? No one knows better than yourself that the money advanced you on the deeds of this homestead has never been repaid.”
Carr staggered, but recovered himself with feeble violence.
“Since you know so much of my affairs, how do you know that this claim will ever be pressed for payment? How do you know it is not the advance of a—a—friend?”
“Because I have seen the woman who advanced it,” said Fairfax hopelessly. “She was here to look at the property before your daughters came.”