“It seems I am not unknown to you, Mr. Howard.”
Varley drew a long breath.
“You are not,” he said. “I have heard of you. Will you think me impertinently inquisitive if I ask your business in Three Star?”
The blood began to mount to Trafford’s face.
“You have every right to ask me that question, Mr. Howard. It is my duty to answer. I have come in search of my wife.”
“My ward—adopted daughter?”
Trafford inclined his head.
“Yes; I am in search of her, Mr. Howard,” he said.
“What do you want with her?” asked Varley; and if Trafford had known him he would have recognized the ominous significance of his quiet, languid tone.
It was a strange question to put to a husband, and for a moment Trafford could find no answer.