"The d—l they are!" said John Crawford, leaning over to examine the register. "True enough! Then my guardianship is ended, with a witness. But is she his wife? Is it Marion Hobart, or may he not have been married before?"
"No, said Leslie," remembering the picture, "she and no other."
They had not been aware that they were speaking loudly enough to be easily overheard; but as the last words were spoken a well-known voice sounded behind them, and Tom Leslie, as he turned, saw Dexter Ralston, cigar in mouth, coming up from the door.
"You were speaking of my wife, gentlemen," he said, as he bowed to Leslie. "Well, what of her?"
"If your wife is Marion Hobart," said John Crawford, turning, "we were speaking of my ward, entrusted to my guardianship by her grandfather, her last surviving relative, on his death-bed, and stolen away by you from the Cataract House yesterday."
The words of Crawford were somewhat loud, and the face of the Virginian flushed, though the office of the hotel was almost deserted and probably no one but themselves understood what was being uttered. "Stolen is a hard word," he said, after a moment, "but if you are John Crawford, who brought Marion Hobart safely away from Glendale, in Virginia, you are licensed to say almost anything."
Tom Leslie spoke.
"Where shall I meet you next, Ralston?"
"That depends upon where you follow me," said the Virginian, in a tone of dignified pleasantry which came near bringing the blood to Leslie's cheek as it had lately been brought to that of the Virginian. The journalist shook off the feeling, however, and laughed.
"Well, we have followed you, of course," he said—"perhaps played spy upon you. But if I am not mistaken, I saw you playing very nearly the same game on Goat Island and at the Cataract."