“You know it?” he cried, starting forward toward her; “you know it?”
“Yes,” she answered; “I know it.”
He stood glaring, trying to collect his senses and grasp in one whirling moment what difference her knowledge would make to him.
“How—how—did you know it?” he stammered.
“That’s not of any consequence. I know that I am Jake Shackleton’s eldest living child; that my mother was married twice; that I was born in the desert instead of in Eldorado County. I know it all. And what is there so odd about that?” She threw her head up and looked with baffling coldness into his eyes. “Why shouldn’t I know my own parentage and birthplace?”
“And—and—” he continued to speak with eager unsteadiness—“you’ve done nothing yet?”
“Done nothing yet,” she repeated; “what should I do?”
“That’s all right,” he said hastily, evidently relieved; “you couldn’t do anything alone. There must be some one to help you.”
“Help me do what?”
Both had forgotten the quarrel, the locked door, the fever pitch of ten minutes earlier. All other thoughts had been crowded out of Mariposa’s mind by the horrible discovery of Essex’s knowledge, and by the apprehensions that were cold in her heart. She shrank from him more than ever, but had no desire now to leave the room. Instead, she persisted in her remark: