"No, I'm not."
"If she were your real daughter--your own flesh an' blood--an' Jack Belllounds was my son, would you let her marry him?"
"Wal, Wade, I reckon I wouldn't."
"Then how can you expect my consent to her marriage with your son?"
"WHAT!" Belllounds lunged over to Wade, leaned down, shaken by overwhelming amaze.
"Collie is my daughter!"
A loud expulsion of breath escaped Belllounds. Lower he leaned, and looked with piercing gaze into the face and eyes that in this moment bore strange resemblance to Columbine.
"So help me Gawd!... That's the secret?... Hell-Bent Wade! An' you've been on my trail!"
He staggered to his big chair and fell into it. No trace of doubt showed in his face. The revelation had struck home because of its very greatness.
Wade took the chair opposite. His likeness to Columbine had faded now. It had been love, a spirit, a radiance, a glory. It was gone. And Wade's face became the emblem of tragedy.