And I, shaken and undone, could only cry: “Believe in you? Oh, my child—do I believe in myself? I know you are innocent.”
I produced the revolver I had found in the hollow stump, and the attorney pounced on it eagerly. “Here is the evidence, indeed,” he said, thoughtfully. “I think we shall prove that the bullet that killed Randall Batterly was fired from this very weapon. Mrs. Batterly’s revolver is of a different caliber.”
As I left the jail I met Captain Grif. He plucked at my sleeve. His face worked. “Wanza ain’t come home yet, Mr. Dale,” he quavered.
I was startled. “That is strange,” I said.
“She’s always stayed to Hidden Lake nights. I warn’t surprised when she didn’t s-show up last night thinkin’ she’d gone peddlin’ in the afternoon, and then gone on to Hidden Lake about the time you was askin’ for her, may be. But I jest heard about Mrs. Batterly bein’ arrested yesterday.” His voice broke. “For God’s sake, Mr. Dale, w-where can Wanza be?”
“Where can she be?” I echoed to myself.
Two days passed. Wanza did not return. To find her became my chief object in life, but all my inquiries were fruitless. And then on the third day, Captain Grif came to Cedar Dale.
“I been thinkin’ that Wanza may be with Sister Veronica at the old Mission near De Smet,” he quavered, tears standing in his poor dim eyes.
“Have you seen Father O’Shan?” I asked quickly.
He shook his head. “Not for days, Mr. Dale, for God’s sake f-find my gal! F-find her, my boy, find her! The Mission’s the place to look for her. Why, when Wanza was a little girl, and we l-lived at Blue Lake, she used to run to Sister Veronica with everything, jest l-like a child to its mother.”