There is a spirit of prophecy in most women, old or young; and especially they have a way of looking through the flesh of their kind and seeing the heart. Kate Pollard came a little closer to her hostess.
"You saw Black Jack die in the street," she queried, "fighting for his life?"
Elizabeth dreamed into the vague distance.
"Riding down the street with his hair blowing—long black hair, you know," she reminisced. "And holding the crowd back as one would hold back a crowd of curs. Then—he was shot from the side by a man in concealment. That was how he fell!"
"I knew," murmured the girl, nodding. "Miss Cornish, I know now why you took in Terry."
"Ah?"
"Not because of a bet—but because you—you loved Black Jack Hollis!"
It brought an indrawn gasp from Elizabeth. Rather of horror than surprise. But the girl went on steadily:
"I know. You saw him with his hair blowing, fighting his way—he rode into your heart. I know, I tell you! Maybe you've never guessed it all these years. But has a single day gone when you haven't thought of the picture?"
The scornful, indignant denial died on the lips of Elizabeth Cornish. She stared at Kate as though she were seeing a ghost.