“The infernal scoundrel!” he exclaimed, hotly. “These were stolen from me at Carson City.”
“Let me see them.” The sheriff ran them over, merely glancing at the endorsements.
“Just as you represented, Waite,” he said, slowly. “A copy of the will, your commission as guardian, and memoranda of identification. Well, Miss Maclaire, how did you happen to be so easily convinced that you were the lost girl?”
“Mr. Hawley brought me a picture which he said was of this girl's half-sister; the resemblance was most startling. This, with the fact that I have never known either father or mother or my real name, and that my earlier life was passed in St. Louis, sufficed to make me believe he must be right.”
“You—you—” Waite choked, leaning forward.
“You don't know your real name?”
“No, I do not,” her lips barely forming the words. “The woman who brought me up never told me.”
“Who—who was the woman?”
“A Mrs. Raymond—Sue Raymond—she was on the stage, and died in Texas—San Antonio, I think.”
Waite swore audibly, his eyes never once deserting the girl's face.