“I may be able to get a little out of Freeman's father,” she prevaricated. “When he has work and is not spending all for drink, he sends me a little now and then. I 'll write to him. He may try to do something now—when my need is so great.”
When she arose she gave Alberson her hand, and held his a moment, warmly pressing it, in thanks.
“I am so grateful,” she said. “It is such a load off my mind. You cannot know how I have worried. I know you'll say nothing about what I have told you.”
“I'm a wise old owl,” said Johnnie, and only then dropped her hand. “I know secrets and still more secrets.”
When Henrietta went out to the front of the store Alberson took a small, round mirror from his pocket and viewed his face in it. He was always a little vain.
“One damn fine woman,” he said, aloud, “and she must have married mighty young. Fine, that's what she is!”
Henrietta stopped to speak to Freeman.
“I fixed it,” she said hastily. “He will wait and let me pay him as I can. I told him you were my son, Freeman. Please don't say much if he quizzes you.”
“I won't,” Freeman said, “but you might just let me know who my father was and where the dear old chap died. A son ought to know that.”
“Don't be funny; I can't bear it,” Henrietta begged. “I told him your father was Billy Vane. He is a drunken brute and he is not dead. He is in Colorado.”