Landor lit another match absently and held it to the already glowing bowl; then threw it away, unconscious of what he had done.
"Another thing," he introduced hurriedly. "I'm pretty strong now, but nevertheless I'm getting to be an old man, and so to-day while I was in
town I had Bob Manning witness my will. I know it's all form, but I feel better to have things settled." With forced matter of factness he knocked the burned contents of the pipe into the grate and filled the bowl afresh. "Mary isn't used to having any responsibility, so I left practically everything to Bess. I know that if anything should happen to me you'd take care of her mother."
No answer, though Landor waited expectantly.
"I don't need to ask your promise to be good to Bess." Very different from his usual peremptory self was the big rancher to-night, very obvious, pathetically so, his effort to appear natural. "I know you'll make her happy, my boy."
Even yet there was no response, and the visitor shifted uncomfortably. As well as he knew his own name he knew that his secret was secret no longer. Yet with the instinct of the wild thing that hides itself to die alone he avoided direct mention of the fact, direct wording of the inevitable. But something in the attitude of the motionless figure before him prevented further dissimulation. Some influence urged him to hasten the dénouement which he knew was but postponed. With an effort he straightened in his seat and for the first time met the other's black eyes steadily.
"I did right, don't you think, How?" he questioned directly.
"Right, perhaps; I don't know." A pause. "What I do know is that I'm sorry you did as you did."
"Sorry, How?"
"Yes, sir. Very sorry."