Then she
dismissed the idea with a shrug.
"That's absurd. Why should I think of him?"
There is a spirit of prophecy in most women, old or young; and especially
they have a way of looking through the flesh of their kind and seeing the
heart. Kate Pollard came a little closer to her hostess.
"You saw Black Jack die in the street," she queried, "fighting for his
life?"
Elizabeth dreamed into the vague distance.
"Riding down the street with his hair blowing--long black hair, you
know," she reminisced. "And holding the crowd back as one would hold back
a crowd of curs. Then--he was shot from the side by a man in concealment.
That was how he fell!"
"I knew," murmured the girl, nodding. "Miss Cornish, I know now why you
took in Terry."
"Ah?"
"Not because of a bet--but because you--you loved Black Jack Hollis!"
It brought an indrawn gasp from Elizabeth. Rather of horror than
surprise. But the girl went on steadily:
"I know. You saw him with his hair blowing, fighting his way--he rode
into your heart. I know, I tell you! Maybe you've never guessed it all
these years. But has a single day gone when you haven't thought of the
picture?"
The scornful, indignant denial died on the lips of Elizabeth Cornish.
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