"So I presume Gordon Orme has told you," I said to him. "You know of
Grace Sheraton, back there?"
His lips but closed the tighter. "Have you told her--have you told this
to my girl?" he asked, finally.
"Draw up your file!" I cried, springing to my feet. "Execute me! I
deserve it. No, I have not told her. I planned to do so--I should never
have allowed her to sign her name there before I had told her
everything--been fair to her as I could. But her accident left her
weak--I could not tell her--a thousand things delayed it. Yes, it was my
fault."
He looked me over with contempt. "You are not fit to touch the shoe on
my girl's foot," he said slowly. "But now, since this thing has begun,
since you have thus involved her and compromised her, and as I imagine
in some foul way have engaged her affections--now, I say, it must go on.
When we get to Laramie, by God! sir, you shall marry that girl. And then
out you go, and never see her face again. She is too good for you, but
where you can be of use to her, for this reason, you shall be used."
I seated myself, my head in my hands, and pondered. He was commanding me
to do that which was my dearest wish in life.
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