"I suppose," he said at last, "that if I ran away I was in pretty

serious trouble. What was it?"

"We've got no absolute proof that you are Clark, remember. You don't

know, and Maggie Donaldson was considered not quite sane before she

died. I've told you there's a chance you are the other man."

"All right. What had Clark done?"

"He had shot a man."

The reporter was instantly alarmed. If Dick had been haggard before, he

was ghastly now. He got up slowly and held to the back of his chair.

"Not--murder?" he asked, with stiff lips.

"No," Bassett said quickly. "Not at all. See here, you've had about all

you can stand. Remember, we don't even know you are Clark. All I said

was--"

"I understand that. It was murder, wasn't it?"

"Well, there had been a quarrel, I understand. The law allows for that,

I think."

Dick went slowly to the window, and stood with his back to Bassett. For

a long time the room was quiet. In the street below long lines of cars

in front of the hotel denoted the luncheon hour. An Indian woman with a

child in the shawl on her back stopped in the street, looked up at Dick

and extended a beaded belt. With it still extended she continued to

stare at his white face.

"The man died, of course?" he asked at last, without turning.

"Yes. I knew him. He wasn't any great loss. It was at the Clark ranch.

I don't believe a conviction would be possible, although they would try

for one. It was circumstantial evidence."

"And I ran away?"

"Clark ran away," Bassett corrected him. "As I've told you, the

authorities here believe he is dead."

After an even longer silence Dick turned.

"I told you there was a girl. I'd like to think out some way to keep

the thing from her, before I surrender myself. If I can protect her, and

David--"

"I tell you, you don't even know you are Clark."

"All right. If I'm not, they'll know. If I am--I tell you I'm not going

through the rest of my life with a thing like that hanging over me.

Maggie Donaldson was sane enough. Why, when I look back, I know our

leaving the cabin was a flight. I'm not Henry Livingstone's son, because

he never had a son. I can tell you what the Clark ranch house looks

like." And after a pause: "Can you imagine the reverse of a dream when

you've dreamed you are guilty of something and wake up to find you are

innocent? Who was the man?"




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