Incredulity shot into Alan's eyes, and the
humorous lines about his mouth vanished when he saw clearly that
Stampede was not drawing upon his imagination. Yet what he had told him
seemed impossible. Mary Standish had come aboard the _Nome_ a fugitive.
All her possessions she had brought with her in a small hand-bag, and
these things she had left in her cabin when she leaped into the sea.
How, then, could she logically have had such a sum of money at Fairbanks
as Stampede described? Was it possible the Thlinkit Indian had also
become her agent in transporting the money ashore on the night she
played her desperate game by making the world believe she had died? And
was this money--possibly the manner in which she had secured it in
Seattle--the cause of her flight and the clever scheme she had put into
execution a little later?
He had been thinking crime, and his face grew hot at the sin of it. It
was like thinking it of another woman, who was dead, and whose name was
cut under his father's in the old cottonwood tree.
Stampede, having gained his wind, was saying: "You don't seem
interested, Alan. But I'm going on, or I'll bust. I've got to tell you
what happened, and then if you want to lead me out and shoot me, I won't
say a word. I say, curse a firecracker anyway!"
"Go on," urged Alan.
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