MacNelly sat at a table upon which was a lamp and various papers. Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindliness. He scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes. Without looking up he pushed a cigar-case toward Duane, and upon Duane's refusal to smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-chimney, and then, settling back in his chair, he faced Duane, making a vain attempt to hide what must have been the fulfilment of a long-nourished curiosity.
“Duane, I've been hoping for this for two years,” he began.
Duane smiled a little—a smile that felt strange on his face. He had never been much of a talker. And speech here seemed more than ordinarily difficult.
MacNelly must have felt that.
He looked long and earnestly at Duane, and his quick, nervous manner changed to grave thoughtfulness.
“I've lots to say, but where to begin,” he mused. “Duane, you've had a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before, don't know what you looked like as a boy. But I can see what—well, even ranger life isn't all roses.”
He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke.
“Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?” he asked, abruptly.
“No.”
“Never a word?”