The man’s smile was cordial, beautiful. He stepped forward with outstretched hand.
“Welcome to our city, Why-Not Pape,” he quoted from the Times Cañon sign which, patently, had been part of Jane’s tale.
But Pape didn’t—just couldn’t meet the advance. He stood stubbornly still before the Davenport, his arms stiff at his sides, his suffering eyes upon the lit taper—upon Jane.
And into her devotional mood seemed to return that gentling comprehension of dumb brutes.
“I beg your pardon,” she said to him. “Mr. Pape, my father.”
CHAPTER XV—THE LIMIT OF TRUST
Not until Jane was finishing an account of his disposal of the “grave-diggers” did Pape feel sure that the splendid old man was blind. Suspicion had come from the uncertainty with which he had veered toward the chair placed for him, from his indirect gaze toward the girl, from the hand outstretched for the touch of her hand. Conclusion surprised from the Westerner a low, sympathetic exclamation which Jane heard, evidently understood and chose to answer openly.
“Yes,” said she, “my father has been unable to see since the war. France, you know, and mustard gas.”
“Do you suppose—” Curtis Lauderdale himself put the question—“that otherwise I’d permit my dear girl to conduct this search against our enemies?”
“But the war—at your age, sir?” murmured Pape. “Weren’t there enough of us who were young and free of family responsibilities to go into service?”