In her search for Pierre, Providence brought her to this place, and Providence could not be wrong. This, a vague emotion stirring in her somewhere between reason and the heart, grew to an almost certain knowledge as she heard the whisper, the faint, heartbroken whisper: "Pierre!"
And when she turned to the boy again, noting the shirts and the chaps hanging at the wall, she knew they belonged to Pierre as surely as if she had seen him hang them there.
The fingers of Jack were twisted around the butt of his revolver, white with the intensity of the pressure.
Now he cried: "Get out! You've done your work; get out!"
But Mary stepped straight toward the murderous, pale face.
"I'll stay," she said, "and wait for Pierre."
The boy blanched.
"Stay?" he echoed.
The heart of Mary went out to this trusty companion who feared for his friend.
She said gently: "Listen; I've come all this way looking for Pierre, but not to harm him, or to betray him, I'm his friend. Can't you trust me, Jack?"