| “To Bucky, from his loving wife and children.” |
The girl handed it to the man without a word, and looked him full in the face.
“Bowled out, by ginger!” he said, with a light laugh.
But as she continued to look at him—a man of promise, who had plainly traveled far on the road to ruin—the conviction grew on her that the sweet-faced woman in the photograph was no loving wife of his. He was a man who might easily take a woman’s fancy, but not one to hold her love for years through the stress of life. Moreover, Bucky O’Connor held the respect of all men. She had heard him spoken of, and always with a meed of affection that is given to few men. Whoever this graceless scamp was, he was not the lieutenant of rangers.
The words slipped out before she could stop them: “You’re not Lieutenant O’Connor at all.”
“Playing on that string again, are you?” he jeered.
“I’m sure of it this time.”
“Since you know who I’m not, perhaps you can tell me, too, who I am.”
In that instant before she spoke, while her steady eyes rested on him, she put together many things 251 which had puzzled her. All of them pointed to one conclusion. Even now her courage did not fail her. She put it into words quietly:
“You are that villain Black MacQueen.”