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Updated: June 23, 2025
Despite his secrecy, then, despite McLean's destruction of the evidence of her visit the night of the disappearance of their property, despite their determination to shield the sister of an absent comrade from suspicion, or disgrace, in some way the story must have gotten around. Possibly there were other thefts of which he knew nothing, in which suspicion had pointed to her.
Miss Jeffries was surprised to see a sudden sorry softness dawn in the young man's look upon her. And she was surprised, too, at his next question. "I wonder, now, if you were the young lady who took him to a masquerade ball some time ago?" Lightly she acknowledged it. "You'll think I'm always taking him to things," she said brightly, but McLean's troubled gaze did not quicken with a smile.
But he came to the earth abruptly, for there were steps coming down the trail that were neither McLean's nor Duncan's and there never had been others. Freckles' heart leaped hotly. He ran a quick hand over his belt to feel if his revolver and hatchet were there, caught up his cudgel and laid it across his knees then sat quietly, waiting. Was it Black Jack, or someone even worse?
Don't you lay a hand on him while I'm here! What do you say, boys?" "I say yes," growled one of McLean's latest deserters. "What's more, we're a pack of fools to risk the dirty work of silencing him. You had him face down and you on his back; why the hell didn't you cover his head and roll him into the bushes until we were gone?
"Not a sylup was said about a glove," maintained Christina, who had given her a highly coloured narrative of what took place in Mrs. McLean's parlour. "And yet there's a glove in't as sure as there's a quirk in't," Gavinia kept muttering to herself.
"Oh, it was not Helen's, then?" "No." "My young gentleman's not in good humor to-night," whispered Mrs. Heath to Miss Purcell, with a significant nod, and moving off. "How did you know what was in Mrs. McLean's letter, Sir?" asked Mary Purcell. "I conjectured. In Mrs. Heath's place, I should have known." "There they come! you can always tell Mrs. McLean's laugh.
Through this tinkle and bleating of little machinery the murmur of the human heart drifted in and out of McLean's hearing; fragments of home talk, tendernesses, economies, intimate first names, and dinner hours, and whether it was joy or sadness, it was in common; the world seemed knit in a single skein of home ties.
McLean would be sure to understand that point, however, thought Mr. Hatton to himself, and to obviate the possibility of his mischievously suggesting that solution of the matter it might be well to tip him a wink. Looking around in search of his chum, Mr. Hatton was surprised at the odd and wretched expression on McLean's face.
"Nevertheless, sir, happy chance gave me a supply of splendid books. I had Shakespeare, Marlowe, Beaumont and Fletcher, translations of Homer and of other great Greeks and Latins." Mr. McLean's frosty eyes beamed. "What a wonderful opportunity!" he said. "Eight or nine months on a desert island with the best of the classics, and nobody to disturb you! No such chance will ever come to me, I fear.
McLean," said the Governor to the cow-puncher on his horse. "How're are yu', doctor," said Lin. During his early days in Wyoming the Governor, when as yet a private citizen, had set Mr. McLean's broken leg at Drybone. "Let me make yu' known to Mrs. McLean," pursued the husband.
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