“Hawley told you to say that?”
“No, he did not,” she protested warmly. “It was never even mentioned between us—at least, not Sue Raymond's name. What difference can that make?”
He stepped forward, one hand flung out, and Fairbain sprang forward instantly between them, mistaking the action.
“Hands off there, Waite,” he commanded sternly. “Whatever she says goes.”
“You blundering old idiot,” the other exploded. “I'm not going to hurt her; stand aside, will you!”
He reached the startled girl, thrust aside the dark hair combed low over the neck, swung her about toward the light, and stared at a birthmark behind her ear. No one spoke, old Waite seemingly stricken dumb, the woman shrinking away from him as though she feared he was crazed.
“What is it?” asked the sheriff, sternly.
Slowly Waite turned about and faced him, running the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. He appeared dazed, confounded.
“My God, it's all right,” he said, with a choke in the throat. “She's—she's the girl.”
Christie stared at him, her lips parted, unable to grasp what it all meant.