“Horace will stay at Comanche a while to look around,” said William, giving her his card with his home address. “If there’s anything that I can do for you any time, don’t wait to write if you can reach a telegraph-wire.”
If there was pain in his eyes she did not see it, or the yearning of hope in his voice, she did not hear. She only realized that the man who filled her life was coming soon, and that she must light again the fires of faith in her eyes to greet him.
CHAPTER XII
THE OTHER MAN
Dr. Slavens stood at the door of the parlor to meet her as she came toward him, a little tremor of weakness in her limbs, a subconscious confession of mastery which the active feminine mind might have denied with blushing show of indignation.
The clothiers of Meander had fitted Slavens out with a very good serge suit. Tan oxfords replaced his old battered shoes. A physician had dressed the cut on his forehead, where adhesive plaster, neatly holding gauze over the cut, took away the aspect of grimness and gravity which the bloody bandage of the morning had imparted. For all his hard fight, he was quite a freshened-up man; but there was a questioning hesitation in his manner as he offered his hand.
Her greeting removed whatever doubt that William Bentley’s assurance of her fidelity might have left. She took his hand between both her own and held it so a little while, looking into his eyes without the reservation of suspicion or distrust.
“We believed you’d come in time all along,” said she.
“You believed it,” he replied softly, not the faintest light of a smile on his serious face; “and I cannot weigh my gratitude in words. There is an explanation to be 189 made, and I have saved it for you. I’m a beast to think of food just now, perhaps, but I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday evening.”
“You can tell me afterward, if you wish,” she said.