“You have not?”
“No; I left you at Fort Larned believing you Christie Maclaire—supposing it your stage name, of course—and was confirmed in this belief by finding in the holster of the saddle you had been riding an envelope bearing that address.”
“I remember; it contained the note the man brought to me from Hawley; he had written it that way.” She crossed the room, sinking down into a chair facing him. “And you have actually confused me with Christie Maclaire all this while? Have never known who I was?”
He shook his head.
“I told you to call me Hope; that is my name—I am Hope Waite.”
“Waite!” he leaned forward, startled by the possibility—“not—not—”
“Yes,” she burst in, holding out her hands, clasping the locket, “and this was my father's; where did you get it?”
He took the trinket from her, turning it over in his fingers. Little by little the threads of mystery were being unravelled, yet, even now, he could not see very far. He looked up from the locket into her questioning face.
“Did I not tell you? No; then it was an oversight. This was about the throat of one of the men I buried at Cimmaron Crossing, but—but, Hope, it was not your father.”
“I know,” her voice choking slightly. “Mrs. Murphy found that out; that is why I am here. I heard my father came to Sheridan, and I wanted you to help me find him.”