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Harte, Bret, 1836-1902

"Frontier Stories"

"
"Let us go to that place."
Cass stepped out briskly to avoid observation and gain the woods beyond
the highway. "You have crossed here before," she said. "There seems to
be a trail."
"I may have made it: it's a short cut to the buckeyes."
"You never found anything else on the trail?"
"You remember, I told you before, the ring was all I found."
"Ah, true!" she smiled sweetly; "it was _that_ which made it seem so
odd to you. I forgot."
In half an hour they reached the buckeyes. During the walk she had
taken rapid recognizance of everything in her path. When they crossed
the road and Cass had pointed out the scene of the murder, she looked
anxiously around. "You are sure we are not seen?"
"Quite."
"You will not think me foolish if I ask you to wait here while I go in
there"--she pointed to the ominous thicket near them--"alone?" She was
quite white.
Cass's heart, which had grown somewhat cold since his interview with
Miss Porter, melted at once.
"Go; I will stay here."
He waited five minutes. She did not return.


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