“But I'm not! I'm not, Mrs. Murphy. I don't even know the woman. It is such a strange thing; I cannot account for it—both those men mistook me for her, and—and I let them. I didn't care who the man Hawley supposed me to be, but I intended to have told Mr. Keith he was mistaken. I don't know why I didn't, only I supposed he finally understood. But I want you to believe, Mrs. Murphy—I am Hope Waite, and not Christie Maclaire.”
“It's little the loss to ye not ter be her, an' Oi'm thinkin' loikely Jack Keith will be moighty well plased ter know the truth. What's 'Black Bart' so ayger ter git hold av this Maclaire gyurl fer?”
“I do not in the least know. He must have induced me to go to that place in the desert believing me to be the other woman. Yet he said nothing of any purpose; indeed, he found no opportunity.”
Mrs. Murphy shook her head disparagingly.
“It was shure some divilment,” she asserted, stoutly. “He'll be up to some thrick wid the poor gyurl; Oi know the loikes av him. Shure, the two av yez must look as much aloike as two payes in a pod. Loikely now, it's a twin sister ye've got?”
Hope smiled, although her eyes were misty.
“Oh, no; Fred and I were the only children; but what shall I do? What ought I to do?”
The Irish mouth of Kate Murphy set firmly, her blue eyes burning.
“It's not sthrong Oi am on advisin',” she said, shortly, “but if it was me Oi'd be fer foindin' out what all this mix-up was about. There's somethin' moighty quare in it. It's my notion that Hawley's got hold av thim papers av yer father's. The owld gint thinks so, too, an' that's why he's so hot afther catchin' him. May the divil admoire me av Oi know where this Maclaire gyurl comes in, but Oi'll bet the black divil has get her marked fer some part in the play. What would Oi do? Be goory, Oi'd go to Sheridan, an' foind the Gineral, an' till him all I knew. Maybe he could piece it together, an' guess what Hawley was up ter.”
Hope was already upon her feet, her puzzled face brightening.