Molly McDonald

Hamlin sank back on the bench and leaned his head on his hand. Had anything been accomplished by this interview? One thing, at least--he had thoroughly demonstrated that the charm once exercised over his imagination by this beautiful woman had completely vanished. He saw her now as she was--heartless, selfish, using her spell of beauty for her own sordid ends. If there had been left a shred of romance in his memory of her, it was now completely shattered. Her coolness, her adroit changing of moods, convinced him she was playing a game. What game? Nothing in her words had revealed its nature, yet the man instinctively felt that it must involve Molly McDonald. Laboriously he reviewed, word by word, each sentence exchanged, striving to find some clue. He had pricked her in the Gaskins affair, there was no doubt of that; she knew, or at least suspected, the party firing the shot. She denied at first having been married to Le Fevre, and yet later had been compelled to acknowledge that marriage. There then was a deliberate falsehood, which must have been told for a purpose. What purpose? Did she imagine it would make any difference with him, or did she seek to shield Le Fevre from discovery? The latter reason appeared the more probable, for the man must have been in the neighborhood lately, else where did that haversack come from?

So engrossed was Hamlin with these thoughts that he hardly realized that some one had lifted the window curtain cautiously. The beam of light flashed across him, disappearing before he could lift his head to ascertain the cause. Then a voice spoke, and he leaned back to listen.

"Not there; gone back to the dance likely, while we were at the bar."

"Nobody out there?" this fellow growled his words.

"Some soldier asleep with his head on the rail; drunk, I reckon. Who was she with this time?"

"Barrett."

"Who? Oh, yes, the fellow who brought in that troop of the Seventh. Lord, the old girl is getting her hooks into him early. Well, as long as Gaskins is laid up, she may as well amuse herself somewhere else. Barrett is rather a good looker, isn't he? Do you know anything about the man? Has he got any stuff?"

"Don't know," answered the gruff voice. "He 's a West Pointer. Vera likes to amuse herself once in a while; that's the woman of it. Heard from Gaskins to-night?"

"Oh, he 's all right," the man laughed. "That little prick frightened him though. Shut up like a clam."

"So I heard. He 'll pay to keep the story quiet, all right. As soon as he is well enough to come down here, we 'll tap his bundle. Swore he was shot by a cavalry sergeant, did n't he?"