"I suppose," he said at last, "that if I ran away I was in pretty
serious trouble. What was it?"
"We've got no absolute proof that you are Clark, remember. You don't
know, and Maggie Donaldson was considered not quite sane before she
died. I've told you there's a chance you are the other man."
"All right. What had Clark done?"
"He had shot a man."
The reporter was instantly alarmed. If Dick had been haggard before, he
was ghastly now. He got up slowly and held to the back of his chair.
"Not--murder?" he asked, with stiff lips.
"No," Bassett said quickly. "Not at all. See here, you've had about all
you can stand. Remember, we don't even know you are Clark. All I said
was--"
"I understand that. It was murder, wasn't it?"
"Well, there had been a quarrel, I understand. The law allows for that,
I think."
Dick went slowly to the window, and stood with his back to Bassett. For
a long time the room was quiet. In the street below long lines of cars
in front of the hotel denoted the luncheon hour. An Indian woman with a
child in the shawl on her back stopped in the street, looked up at Dick
and extended a beaded belt. With it still extended she continued to
stare at his white face.
"The man died, of course?" he asked at last, without turning.
"Yes. I knew him. He wasn't any great loss. It was at the Clark ranch.
I don't believe a conviction would be possible, although they would try
for one. It was circumstantial evidence."
"And I ran away?"
"Clark ran away," Bassett corrected him. "As I've told you, the
authorities here believe he is dead."
After an even longer silence Dick turned.
"I told you there was a girl. I'd like to think out some way to keep
the thing from her, before I surrender myself. If I can protect her, and
David--"
"I tell you, you don't even know you are Clark."
"All right. If I'm not, they'll know. If I am--I tell you I'm not going
through the rest of my life with a thing like that hanging over me.
Maggie Donaldson was sane enough. Why, when I look back, I know our
leaving the cabin was a flight. I'm not Henry Livingstone's son, because
he never had a son. I can tell you what the Clark ranch house looks
like." And after a pause: "Can you imagine the reverse of a dream when
you've dreamed you are guilty of something and wake up to find you are
innocent? Who was the man?"