"But you might
not find the trail," she said. "The ravine would lead you to Graham's
homestead."
"Still," said Winston slowly, "I am going to the Grange."
Then Maud Barrington remembered, and glanced aside from him. It was
evident this man thought of everything, and she made no answer when
Winston, who thrust more billets into the stove, turned to her with a
little smile.
"I think we need remember nothing when we meet again, beyond the fact
that you will give me a chance of showing that the Lance Courthorne
whose fame you know has ceased to exist."
Then he went out, and the girl stood with flushed cheeks looking down
at the furs he had left behind him.
CHAPTER XI
MAUD BARRINGTON'S PROMISE
Daylight had not broken across the prairie when, floundering through a
foot of dusty snow, Winston reached the Grange. He was aching from
fatigue and cold, and the deerskin jacket stood out from his numbed
body stiff with frost, when, leaning heavily on a table, he awaited
Colonel Barrington. The latter, on entering, stared at him, and then
flung open a cupboard and poured out a glass of wine.
"Drink that before you talk. You look half-dead," he said.
Winston shook his head. "Perhaps you had better hear me first."
Barrington thrust the glass upon him. "I could make nothing of what
you told me while you speak like that. Drink it, and then sit still
until you get used to the different temperature."
Winston drained the glass, and sank limply into a chair.
Pages:
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147