But Kurt could not trust his ears and he had to make haste to terminate the confession into which his folly and emotion had betrayed him. He scarcely heard her words.
"Yes.… I told you why I wanted you to know.… And now forget that—and when I'm gone—if you think of me ever, let it be about how much better it made me—to have all this good luck—to help your father and to save you!"
The dust-cloud down the road came from a string of automobiles, flying along at express speed. Kurt saw them with relief.
"Here come the cars on your trail," he called out. "Your father will be in one of them."
Kurt opened the door of the car and stepped down. He could not help his importance or his pride. Anderson, who came running between two cars that had stopped abreast, was coatless and hatless, covered with dust, pale and fire-eyed.
"Mr. Anderson, your daughter is safe—unharmed," Kurt assured him.
"My girl!" cried the father, huskily, and hurried to where she leaned out of her seat.
"All right, dad," she cried, as she embraced him. "Only a little shaky yet."
It was affecting for Dorn to see that meeting, and through it to share something of its meaning. Anderson's thick neck swelled and colored, and his utterance was unintelligible. His daughter loosened her arm from round him and turned her face toward Kurt. Then he imagined he saw two blue stars, sweetly, strangely shining upon him.