“Never.”
She was knitting again—knitting feverishly and desperately.
“Lyn—I want to tell you—all about it! About something you must know.”
Very quietly now, Lynda rolled her work together and tossed it, needles and all, upon the glowing logs. She was done, forever, with subterfuge and she knew it. The wool curled, blackened, and gave forth a scorched smell before the red coals subdued it. Then, with a straight, uplifted look:
“I’m ready, Con.”
“Just before I broke down and went away, Brace once told me that my life had no background, no colour. Lynda, it is of that background about which you do not know, that I want to speak.” He waited a moment, then went on:
“I went away—to the loneliest, the most beautiful place I had ever seen. For a time there seemed to be nobody in the world but the man with whom I lived and me. He liked and trusted me—I betrayed his trust!”
Lynda caught her breath and gave a little exclamation of dissent, wonder.
“You—betrayed him, Con! I cannot believe that. Go on.”
“Yes. I betrayed his trust. He left me and went into the deep woods to hunt. He put everything in my care—everything. He was gone nearly three weeks. No one knew of my existence. They are like that down there. If you are an outsider you do not matter. I had arrived at dark; I was sent for a certain purpose; that was all that mattered. I began and ended with the man who was my host and who had been told to—to keep me secret.” Truedale was gripping the arms of his chair and his words came punctuated by sharp pauses.