“No; I saw no one like that. To whom are you referring?”
“Oh, I dunno, I dunno,” responded the other with a clumsy shrug of his shoulders, and turning back to the fire over which he cowered.
“But you know her anyhow,” he added, half to himself.
“Whom do I know? Turn around.”
The man turned, looking a little defiant.
“Now, what are you trying to say?”
“I ain’t tryin’ to say nuthin’. All I done is to ask yer if yer saw a lady—tall, with red hair—at the funeral. You know her, ’cause I’ve seen you with her.”
“Who is she?”
“Well,” slowly and uneasily, “she’s called Moreau.”
“You mean Miss Mariposa Moreau, the daughter of a mining man, who died last spring in Santa Barbara?”