CHAPTER XII
The election came and went; the voice of the people had been heard, and Maverick County had a new sheriff. In the house on the Quemado Road Fectnor’s name was heard no more.
On the Saturday night following the election Harboro came home and found a letter waiting for him on the table in the hall. He found also a disquieted Sylvia, who looked at him with brooding and a question in her eyes.
He stopped where he stood and read the letter, and Sylvia watched with parted lips—for she had recognized the handwriting on the envelope.
Harboro’s brows lowered into a frown. “It’s from your father,” he said finally, lifting his eyes from the letter and regarding Sylvia.
She tried to achieve an effect of only mild interest. “What can he have to write to you about?” she asked.
“Poor fellow—it seems he’s been ill. Sylvia, how long has it been since you visited your father?”
“Does he want me to come to see him?”
“He hints at that pretty strongly. Yes, that’s really the substance of his letter.”
“I’ve never been back since we were married.”