"That's my name," answered Allen suspiciously. "But I ain't uncle to every stranger that comes along."
"I'm no stranger," laughed Dick. "You know me."
"Do I?" replied Allen, unconvinced. "Who are you?"
"The poor orphan you took from an asylum and made a man of—Dick Lane."
"Dick Lane!" repeated the astonished ranchman. "Come back from the dead!"
"No, I ain't dead yet," answered Dick, holding out his hand, which Allen gingerly grasped, as if he expected to find it thin air. "I wasn't killed. I have been in the hospital for a long time. I wrote Jack—he knows."
"My God!" Allen cried. "Jack knows—you wrote to him—he knows." Over and over he repeated the astonishing news which had been broken to him so suddenly. Here was a man, as if back from the dead, standing in his own dooryard, telling him that Jack knew he was alive. No word had been told him. What could Echo say? This, then, explained Jack's strange request, and his distress.
"And Echo?" Dick questioned, glancing toward the house.
"Echo." The name aroused Allen. He saw at once that he must act definitely and quickly. Echo must not see Dick now. It was too late. The secret of his return on the wedding-day must be known only to the three men.
"Look here, Dick," he commanded. "You mustn't let her see you—she mustn't know you are alive."