"Before I tell you what's been on my mind these many weeks—I want to hold you in my arms and hear you say: 'Jack, I believe in you.'"
Echo put her arms about his neck and, nestling close to his breast, declared: "I do believe in you—no matter what circumstances may be against you. No matter if all the world calls you guilty—I believe in you, and love you."
Jack seated himself at the table, and drew his wife down beside him. Putting his arms about her as she knelt before him, he murmured: "You're a wife—a wife of the West, as fair as its skies and as steadfast as its hills—and I—I'm not worthy—"
"Not worthy—you haven't—it isn't—" gasped Echo, starting back from him, thinking that Jack was about to confess that under some strange stress of circumstances he had slain the express-agent.
"No, it isn't that," hastily answered Jack, with a shudder at the idea. "I've lied to you," he simply confessed.
"Lied to me—you?" cried Echo, in dismay.
"I've been a living lie for months," relentlessly continued Jack, nerving himself for the ordeal through which he would have to pass.
"Jack," wailed Echo, shrinking from him on her knees, covering her face with her hands.
"It's about Dick."
Echo started. Again Dick Lane had arisen as from out the grave.