"How long since you heard from your daughter?"
"Oh, quite a while."
"Six months?"
"A little longer, maybe."
Here, Mrs. Swift broke in, her tone a little hysterical:
"Is Madeline hurt?"
Again that long pause, while the sombre brown eyes of Thatcher Colt looked into the dull blue eyes of Beulah Swift, uttering a tragic message.
"She's dead!" gasped the mother. Her look from one to another of us was imploring, child-like; she began to cry violently when none denied her words. The father stared hard at his stricken wife and one long hand came up and flapped at her back comfortingly but with a useless, seal-like motion.
"Poor Madeline!" he muttered. "Never mind, Beulah. Now everything is settled and finished. It's better that way."
TEN MINUTES LATER, Thatcher Colt began to extract a st
