They walked through heavy sand and dust, then along a board walk, to turn aside before what was apparently a new brick structure, but a closer view proved it to be only painted wood. The place rang hollow with a sound of hammers. It looked well, but did not feel stable underfoot. Durade led her through two large hall-like rooms into a small one, light and newly furnished.
“The best Benton afforded,” said Durade, waving his hand. “You’ll be comfortable. There are books—newspapers. Here’s a door opening into a little room. It’s dark, but there’s water, towel, soap. And you’ve a mirror.... Allie, this is luxury to what you’ve had to put up with.”
“It is, indeed,” she replied, removing her veil, and then the cloak and bonnet. “But—am I to be shut up here?”
“Yes. Sometimes at night early I’ll take you out to walk. But Benton is—”
“What?” she asked, as he paused.
“Benton will not last long,” he finished, with a shrug of his shoulders. “There’ll be another one of these towns out along the line. We’ll go there. And then to Omaha.”
More than once he had hinted at going on eastward.
“I’ll find your mother—some day,” he added, darkly. “If I didn’t believe that I’d do differently by you.”
“Why?”
“I want her to see you as good as she left you. Then!... Are you ever going to tell me how she gave me the slip?”