“There will be. But put what you choose, Lyn, it will surely be all right.”
“Suppose, then, we make it golden brown, or—dull, soft reds?”
Truedale recalled the shabby little shawl that Nella-Rose had worn before she donned her winter disguise.
“Make it soft dull red, Lyn—but not too dull.”
Truedale no longer meant to lay his secret bare before departing for the South. While he would not acknowledge it to his anxious heart, he realized that he must base the future on the outcome of his journey. Once he laid hands upon Nella-Rose, he would act promptly and hopefully, but—he must be sure, now, before he made a misstep. There had been mistakes enough, heaven knew; he must no longer play the fool.
And then when the little gilded cage was ready, Truedale conceived his big and desperate idea. Two weeks had passed since Jim White’s letter and no telegram or note had come from Nella-Rose. Neither love nor caution could wait longer. Truedale decided to go to Pine Cone. Not as a returned traveller, certainly not—at first—to White, but to Lone Dome, and there, passing himself off as a chance wayfarer, he would gather as much truth as he could, estimate the value of it, and upon it take his future course. In all probability, he thought—and he was almost gay now that he was about to take matters into his own hands—he would ferret out the real facts and be back with his quarry before another week. It was merely a matter of getting the truth and being on the spot.
Nella-Rose’s family might, for reasons of their own, have deceived Jim White. Certainly if they did not know at the time of Nella-Rose’s whereabouts they would, like others, voice the suspicion of the hills; but by now they would either have her with them or know positively where she was. For all his determination to believe this, Truedale had his moments of sickening doubt. The simple statement in White’s letter, burned, as time went on, into his very soul.
But, whatever came—whatever there was to know—he meant to go at once to headquarters. He would remain, too, until Peter Greyson was sober enough to state facts. He recalled clearly Jim’s estimate of Greyson and his dual nature depending so largely upon the effect of the mountain whisky.
It was late November when Truedale set forth. No one made any objection to his going now. Things were running smoothly and if he had to go at all to straighten out any loose ends, he had better go at once.
To Lynda the journey seemed simple enough. Truedale had left, among other belongings, his manuscript and books. Naturally he would not trust them to another’s careless handling.