"General Lodge, I have no sympathy for Neale," came the cold voice
of Allison Lee.
There was no reply. Some one coughed. Footsteps sounded in the
hallway, and a hum of distant voices.
"You forget," continued Lee, "what happened not many hours ago when
your train was saved by that dare-devil Casey--the little book held
tight in his locked teeth--the letter meant for this Neale from one
of Benton's camp-women.... Your engineer read enough. You heard. I
heard.... A letter from a dying woman. She accused Neale of striking
her--of killing her.... She said she was dying, but she loved
him.... Do you remember that, General Lodge?"
"Yes, alas! ... Lee, I don't deny that. But--"
"There are no buts."
"Lee, you're hard, hard as steel. Appearances seem against Neale. I
don't seek to extenuate them. But I know men. Neale might have
fallen--it seems he must have. These are terrible times. In anger or
drink Neale might have struck this woman.... But kill her--No!"
A gleam pierced Allie Lee's dark bewilderment. They meant Beauty
Stanton, that beautiful, fair woman with such a white, soft bosom
and such sad eyes--she whom Larry King had shot. What a tangle of
fates and lives! She could tell them why Beauty Stanton was dying.
Then other words, like springing fire, caught Allie's thought, and a
sickening ripple of anguish convulsed her.
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