“Lord in heaven!” he gasped; “first her on that bed 308 and now him! I—I feel as if I was haunted in this camp. Seldon, is it—is it—”
“No mistake possible,” answered the other man, decidedly. “I could swear to the identity. It is George Rankin!”
“And Holly, the renegade!” added Haydon, in consternation; “and Lord only knows how many other aliases he has worn. Oh, what a sensation the papers would make over this if they got hold of it all. My! my! it would be awful! And that girl, Montana, as she calls herself, she has been clever to keep it quiet as she has, for—Oh, Lord!”
“What is the matter now? You look fairly sick,” said the other, impatiently. “I didn’t fancy you’d grieve much over his death.”
“No, it isn’t that,” said Haydon, huskily. “But that girl—don’t you see she was accused of this? And—well seeing who he is, how do we know—”
He stopped awkwardly, unable to continue with the girl herself so near and with Seldon’s warning glance directed to him.
She leaned against the wall, and apparently had not heard their words. Seldon’s face softened as he looked at her; and, going over, he put his hand kindly on her hair.
“I am going to be your uncle, now,” he said in a caressing tone. “You have kept up like a soldier under some terrible things here; but we will try to make things brighter for you now.”
She smiled in a dreary way without looking at him. His knowledge of the terrible things she had endured seemed to her very limited.
“And you will go now with us—with Mr. Haydon—back 309 to your mother’s old home, won’t you?” he said, in a persuasive way. “It is not good, you know, for a little girl not to know any of her relations, or to bear such shocking grudges,” he added, in a lower tone.