She bent her head. For a long time neither spoke. Plucking at a glove, she revealed a ring on her left hand—his ring! Then Power began his confession. He did not tell her everything—that was impossible. Nor was it necessary. In the first moment of their meeting he had said what she had been waiting thirteen long years to hear.
So, as the outcome, it was MacGonigal who surprised Power. A clerk at the key office gave him the name of the gentleman who had been inquiring for him, and, although taken aback by finding Power deep in talk with a lady, Mac “butted in” joyously.
The two stood up, and Power took his friend’s hand.
“Mac,” he said, “this is Miss Marguerite Sinclair. You’ll soon be well acquainted with her. She becomes Marguerite Power at the earliest possible date.”
Now, MacGonigal had formed his own conclusions, owing to the urgency of the message for that sealed packet. Anxiety, and not a desire to see life, had drawn him from his shell in Bison. Power’s words had answered many unspoken questions, solved all manner of doubts. His face shone, his big eyes bulged alarmingly. He mopped a shining forehead with, alas! a red handkerchief.
“Wall, ef I ain’t dog-goned!” he vowed. “But I’m glad, mighty glad. You’ve worried me, Derry, an’ that’s a fact.” He turned to Marguerite, little guessing how well she knew him. “Bring him to the ranch, Ma’am, an’ keep him thar!” he said. “It’ll look like home when you come along. An’ that’s what he wants—a home. I don’t know whar he met you, nor when, but I kin tell you this—he’s been like a lost dog fer thirteen years, an’ it’s time he was fixed with a collar an’ chain. Anyhow, when he’s had a good look at you, he’ll not need the chain.”
“Mac,” said the woman with the shining eyes, “you’re a dear!”
And from that moment the firm of Power and MacGonigal acquired another partner.
THE END