"BITTON, Commanding."
He crushed the paper in his hand, thinking--thinking of the past, the
present, the future. He had borne much in these last years, much
misrepresentation, much loneliness of soul. He had borne these
patiently, smiling into the mocking eyes of Fate. Through it all--the
loss of friends, of profession, of ambition, of love, of home--he had
never wholly lost hold of a sustaining hope, and now it would seem that
this long-abiding faith was at last to be rewarded. Yet he realized,
as he fronted the facts, how very little he really had to build
upon,--the fragmentary declaration of Slavin, wrung from him in a
moment of terror; an idle boast made to Brant by the surprised scout; a
second's glimpse at a scarred hand,--little enough, indeed, yet by far
the most clearly marked trail he had ever struck in all his vain
endeavor to pierce the mystery which had so utterly ruined his life.
To run this Murphy to cover remained his final hope for retrieving
those dead, dark years. Ay, and there was Naida! Her future, scarcely
less than his own, hung trembling in the balance.
The sudden flashing of that name into his brain was like an electric
shock.
Pages:
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345