He paused as if it was an effort to speak, and a long, thin, shapely hand went to his throat. “Your mother?” he asked, hoarsely. Suddenly his face had turned white.
Allie gazed straight into his eyes, with wonder, pain, suspicion. “My mother! I’ve not seen her for nearly two years.”
“My God! What happened? You lost her? You became separated?... Indians—bandits?... Tell me!”
“I have—no—more to tell,” said Allie. His pain revived her own. She pitied Durade. He had changed—aged—there were lines in his face that were new to her.
“I spent a year in and around Ogden, searching,” went on Durade. “Tell me—more.”
“No!” cried Allie.
“Do you know, then?” he asked, very low.
“I’m not your daughter—and mother ran off from you. Yes, I know that,” replied Allie, bitterly.
“But I brought you up—took care of you—helped educate you,” protested Durade, with agitation. “You were my own child, I thought. I was always kind to you. I—I loved the mother in the daughter.”
“Yes, I know.... But you were wicked.”