For the time being, Dora seemed to have forgotten Loney.
Muriel combed and dressed Dora’s thick, dark hair, comforting and consoling her with tender words all the while, until, bathed and refreshed, she waited with Muriel for supper. Indeed they needed it, as Pierson had kept them on the road for many hours on foot, making them climb ridges, and walk over arid stretches, until they were exhausted.
He did not wish to travel in the usual manner, as it would have been too public, and some one might recognize him, Muriel or Dora. Of Dopey he had no fear, for the lives of such as Dopey are like those of the rats—mostly underground and out of sight.
And it was part of his plan to half-starve both Muriel and Dora, but, being in the “hotel,” he dared not give rise to suspicion by neglecting to order food for them.
“Mr. Duffy,” said John, “my wife and daughter are so worn out with the trip that I would beg you to send their supper to their room, if it can be done.”
“Certainly it can be done, if it takes the whole outfit. I hope the young lady is better.”
“I fear she never will be better. Her last chance is the solitude of the mountains, and the air.”
“Did you come over in the stage?”
“No, we had a rig from—from—I don’t know what the name of the place is, but my daughter is so tender-hearted—and so difficult to manage sometimes—that she could not bear to see the horses pulling so, and insisted on walking. The driver told us the place was just over the rise, so—we walked, and it was a walk!”
“I should think so. You will have your supper down here, I suppose?”