“Yes; it was a shock,” was the answer. “I have been dragged back into the black pit of twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years?” said Baird.
“I have seen the man who—was with us in the hillside cabin, through that night she died. He passed me in the street.”
Baird stood still and looked at him without speaking. What was there to be said?
“He is such a noticeable looking fellow,” Latimer went on, “that I felt sure I could find out who he was. In the mountains they called him ‘Big Tom D‘Willerby.’ His real name is De Willoughby, and he has been here for some months in pursuit of a claim, which is a great deal talked about.”
“The great De Willoughby claim?” said Baird. “They talked of it to-night at dinner.”
Latimer tapped the table nervously with the fingers of an unsteady hand.
“He may be living within a hundred yards of us—within a hundred yards,” he said. “We may cross each other’s path at any moment. I can at least know—since fate has brought us together again—I should never have sought him out—but one can know whether—whether it lived or died.”
“He has with him,” said Baird, “a girl of nineteen who is his adopted daughter. I heard it to-night. She is said to be a lovely girl who is in love with a lovely boy who is De Willoughby’s nephew. She is happy.”
“She is happy,” murmured Latimer, biting his livid lips. He could not bring himself back to the hour he was living in. He could only see again the bare little room—he could hear the cries of terrified anguish. “It seems strange,” he murmured, “that Margery’s child should be happy.”