It was all impossible. This thing could not be. It was really as bad as
the yarn of the Frankenstein monster. He considered how it would seem in
print, backed by his most solemn asseverations, and then he saw the
faces of the men who associated with him, pale thoughtful faces striving
to conceal their smiles and their contempt. But always he came back,
like the desperate hare doubling on his course, upon the picture of Kate
Cumberland there at the turning of the stairs, and that bent, bright
head which confessed defeat. The man had forgotten her. It made Byrne
open his eyes in incredulity even to imagine such a thing. The man had
forgotten her! She was no more to him than some withered hag he might
ride past on the road.
His ear, subconsciously attentive to everything around him, caught a
faint sound from the next room. It was a regular noise. It had the
rhythm of a quick footfall, but in its nature it was more like the
sound of a heavily beating pulse. Randall Byrne sat up in his chair. A
faint creaking attested that it was, indeed, a footfall traversing the
room to and fro, steadily.
The stranger, then, no longer leaned over the couch of the old
cattleman. He was walking up and down the floor with that
characteristic, softly padding step. Of what did he think as he walked?
It carried Byrne automatically out into the darkest night, with a wind
in his face, and the rhythm of a long striding horse carrying him on to
a destination unknown.
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