“But it was the right place,” he said. “She had evidently not gone to bed, and was dressed. When I returned I found a part of her skirt in the debris above. A heavy tress of her hair had caught around a steel ribbing, and it was cut off! Some one had been there during my absence and had taken the body. I—I'm almost ready to believe that I was mistaken, and that she was alive. I found nothing there, nothing—that could prove her death.”
“Is it possible—” began Philip, holding out the handkerchief.
It was not necessary for him to finish. Billinger understood, and nodded his head.
“That's what I'm thinking,” he said. “Is it possible? What in God's name would they want of her, unless—”
“Unless she was alive,” added Philip. “Unless one or more of the scoundrels searching for valuables in there during the excitement, saw her and carried her off with their other booty. It's up to us, Billinger!”
Billinger had reached inside his shirt, and now he drew forth a small paper parcel.
“I don't know why—but I kept the tress of hair,” he said. “See—”
From between his fingers, as he turned toward Philip, there streamed out a long silken tress that shone a marvelous gold in the sun, and in that same instant there fell from Philip's lips a cry such as Billinger had not heard, even from the lips of the wounded; and before he could recover from his astonishment, he had leaned over and snatched the golden tress from him, and sat in his saddle staring at it like a madman.