“That the courts have freed you. Of course.”
Mollie wept happy tears through which smiles struggled. Vicky, dominated by a sense of delicacy, regretfully withdrew and left them to talk the murmurous disjointed language of lovers that has come down from Adam and Eve in the garden. Fifteen minutes later she poked her head back into the room and coughed discreetly.
“Vicky, when can you have my girl ready?” Scot demanded.
“Ready for what?” she asked.
But she knew for what. Her face sparkled. The slim body wriggled with excitement, as a happy, expectant puppy does.
“For the wedding, of course.”
“In twenty minutes,” answered Vicky promptly.
“Good. I met Father Marston at the Ormsby House when the stage came in. I’ll be back in time.”
Mollie protested, blushing. She had no clothes. She did not think she wanted to be married in such a hurry. Proper arrangements must be made. Vicky and Scot brushed her excuses aside peremptorily.
In his blue uniform McClintock strode down the street, the sword still swinging at his side. He knew where to find Father Marston, who was chaplain of the legislature, now in special session.