“When the doctor came he said it was doubtful if the poor thing could live; the blow on the head had been a fearful one, and it was a wonder that it had not killed her outright. Besides that, there was the print of three fingers on her throat, showing that there had been a struggle with some one, and pointing to foul play.
“Of course when we found that Henly had decamped taking the boy with him, we suspected him of having done the deed, and the authorities were at once set on his track. But nothing has ever been heard of him or the child from that day to this; at least not to my knowledge. His wife had a tough time of it. We had her brought over here, and my wife and daughter took care of her through a three month’s illness, and when she did get up again she was but the shadow of her former self.”
“Did she get well?” Geoffrey exclaimed, amazed.
“Yes; she recovered her health, though she was not as strong as she had been, and her head was apt to trouble her at times. But her heart was broken over the disappearance of her husband and the boy. It was a long time before we could make her tell how she had been injured, and then she excused Henly. She said he had come home the worse for liquor, and did not know what he was about. She said he must have been frightened, believing he had killed her, and then taken the boy and fled. I suspect there was something more to it, but that was all we could ever get out of her.”
“Ah!” thought Geoffrey, “she shielded him from the suspicion of having murdered me also, and she must have suffered torture on my account as well as his.”
“As soon as she was able to get about,” resumed the farmer, “she insisted upon going away altogether from the place. She could not go back to her home and live there alone, she said, and she wanted to search for her husband, to let him know that he had not killed her, as he must believe. I imagined, too, that she couldn’t bear to meet the boy’s father when he should come again and find that he had disappeared. She sold all her household goods, offered a reward of a thousand dollars—having deposited that amount in a bank in San Francisco for the purpose—to any one who should find her husband or secure any definite information regarding him, and then she left the place herself. We have never seen her since, nor heard what became of her.”
“Did she leave no address?” Geoffrey inquired. “If not, how could she expect to be communicated with in case any tidings of her husband were obtained?”
“I believe a personal of some kind was to be inserted in certain papers in the leading cities of the country by those who had charge of the affair,” replied the farmer, “but I guess it has never been printed. Their house has never been occupied since. A good many people believe that Henly murdered the boy also, and concealed the body somewhere on the farm, so the place has had the reputation of being haunted, therefore we have never had any neighbors there.”
“Since Mrs. Henly was not murdered, I am at liberty to set your heart at rest upon that subject,” Geoffrey responded. “The boy is alive and well. I am that boy!” The farmer started from his chair and stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment at this electrifying statement.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, at last, and bending to look more closely into his visitor’s face, “and yet you said your name was Huntress.”