Now get out of my house, or I'll forget
who and what you are!' Father Roubeau bowed, took her hand, and
started for the door. But Wharton cut them off.
'Grace! You said you loved me?' 'I did.' 'And you do now?' 'I
do.' 'Say it again.'
'I do love you, Clyde; I do.' 'There, you priest!' he cried. 'You
have heard it, and with those words on her lips you would send
her back to live a lie and a hell with that man?'
But Father Roubeau whisked the woman into the inner room and
closed the door. 'No words!' he whispered to Wharton, as he
struck a casual posture on a stool. 'Remember, for her sake,' he
added.
The room echoed to a rough knock at the door; the latch raised
and Edwin Bentham stepped in.
'Seen anything of my wife?' he asked as soon as salutations had
been exchanged.
Two heads nodded negatively.
'I saw her tracks down from the cabin,' he continued tentatively,
'and they broke off, just opposite here, on the main trail.' His
listeners looked bored.
'And I--I thought--'
'She was here!' thundered Wharton.
The priest silenced him with a look. 'Did you see her tracks
leading up to this cabin, my son?' Wily Father Roubeau--he had
taken good care to obliterate them as he came up the same path an
hour before.
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