“Pierre Lavelle?”
“Ah!” he quavered. He dashed down the half coin. “Are you going to tell me these bones are his? No, no! Such men as he live long. And this keepsake! Tell me she died miserably; that will be something. You did know him? You did? Or do you dare to allege you can rebuild a past, from this dungheap? What?”
“You wrong her, Mr. Brown,” I answered. “I never knew Lavelle, never saw him, I never knew her—I do not even know her name, except by yours. But——”
“Catherine,” he murmured. “Kitty. A beautiful girl, and false as hell.”
“You wrong her,” I repeated. “You wrong these poor bones. Will you listen?”
“Go on.” He steadied himself. “They won’t speak. Can you?”
“I’ll speak for them,” I continued. “In 1867 a government wagon train was en route from Leavenworth for old Fort Bridger of Utah.”
“Very likely,” he sneered.
“There was a young wife with it, to join her husband at the post. And there was a train attaché named Pierre Lavelle, half Spanish and half Indian—a handsome scoundrel.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”