her grandfather in trust. He said the girl had been taken West, when
scarcely two years old, by her father in a fit of drunken rage, and then
deserted by him in St. Louis."

"You--you saw the papers?" Waite broke in.

"Yes, those that Hawley had; he gave them to me to keep for him." She
crossed to her trunk, and came back, a manilla envelope in her hand.
Waite opened it hastily, running his eyes over the contents.

"The infernal scoundrel!" he exclaimed, hotly. "These were stolen from
me at Carson City."

"Let me see them." The sheriff ran them over, merely glancing at the
endorsements.

"Just as you represented, Waite," he said, slowly. "A copy of the will,
your commission as guardian, and memoranda of identification. Well, Miss
Maclaire, how did you happen to be so easily convinced that you were the
lost girl?"

"Mr. Hawley brought me a picture which he said was of this girl's
half-sister; the resemblance was most startling. This, with the fact
that I have never known either father or mother or my real name, and
that my earlier life was passed in St. Louis, sufficed to make me
believe he must be right."

"You--you--" Waite choked, leaning forward.

"You don't know your real name?"

"No, I do not," her lips barely forming the words. "The woman who
brought me up never told me."

"Who--who was the woman?"

"A Mrs. Raymond--Sue Raymond--she was on the stage, and died in
Texas--San Antonio, I think."

Waite swore audibly, his eyes never once deserting the girl's face.

"Hawley told you to say that?"

"No, he did not," she protested warmly. "It was never even mentioned
between us--at least, not Sue Raymond's name. What difference can that
make?"

He stepped forward, one hand flung out, and Fairbain sprang forward
instantly between them, mistaking the action.

"Hands off there, Waite," he commanded sternly. "Whatever she says
goes."

"You blundering old idiot," the other exploded. "I'm not going to hurt
her; stand aside, will you!"

He reached the startled girl, thrust aside the dark hair combed low over
the neck, swung her about toward the light, and stared at a birthmark
behind her ear. No one spoke, old Waite seemingly stricken dumb, the
woman shrinking away from him as though she feared he was crazed.

"What is it?" asked the sheriff, sternly.

Slowly Waite turned about and faced him, running the sleeve of his coat
across his eyes. He appeared dazed, confounded.

"My God, it's all right," he