He spread the letter before him on the table and saw in a kind of haze the angry zigzag characters that galloped across the page, the words whose meaning he did not as yet catch, so swiftly did his thoughts rise up at sight of them. Years ago Kitty had written him a letter and he had read it at that same table. It had been a cruel letter, but unconsidered, like the tantrum of a child. Yes, he had almost forgotten it, but now like a sudden nightmare the old horror clutched at his heart. He steadied himself, and the words began to take form before him. Surely she 378 would be gentle with Jeff, he was so big and kind. Then he read on, slowly, grasping at the meaning, and once more his eyes grew big with horror at her words. He finished, and bowed his head upon the table, while the barren room whirled before him.
From his place across the table the big cowboy looked down upon him, grim and masterful, yet wondering at his silence.
“Well, am I wrong?” he demanded, but the little man made no answer.
Upon the table before Hardy there lay another letter, written in that same woman’s hand, a letter to him, and the writing was smooth and fair. Jeff had brought it to him, tied behind his saddle, and he stood before him now, waiting.
“Am I wrong?” he said again, but Hardy did not answer in words. Holding the crumpled letter behind him he took up his own fair missive––such a one as he would have died for in years gone by––and laid it on the fire, and when the tiny flame leaped up he dropped the other on it and watched them burn together.
“Well, how about it?” inquired Creede, awed by the long silence, but the little man only bowed his head.
“Who am I, to judge?” he said.