“Oh, dear!”
“You miserable coward! She wouldn’t know what it meant if she saw it.”
“No.”
“Arthur Pearson—”
“Oh, don’t!”
“Arthur Pearson has not been heard of in twenty years.”
The old man shuddered, and drew a long sighing breath.
“Walter Parks, after all his big talk, never came back from England,” she hurried on. “Menard is dead; and Joe Blakesley is in California. The rest are dead, or scattered south and west. There are none of the train to be found here, except—except the Krutzers; and who can identify them after twenty years?”
“I shall never feel safe again.”
“Yes, you will. You always feel safe when the dollars jingle in your pockets, although it’s precious little good they bring you.”