“I don't understand everything myself,” says Colonel Tom. “But I do understand that Prent McMakin must have played some sort of a two-faced game. He never said a word to me about having seen you. “Listen,” he goes on. “When you and Lucy ran away it nearly killed our grandfather. In fact, it finally did kill him. When we got Lucy's letter that told you were in Chicago I went up to bring her back home. We didn't know what we were going to do, McMakin and I, but we were both agreed that you needed killing. And he swore that he would marry Lucy anyhow, even--” “_Marry her!_” sings out the doctor, “but we _were_ married.” “Dave,” Colonel Tom says very slow and steady, “you keep _saying_ you were married. But it's strange--it's right _strange_ about that marriage.” And he looked at the doctor hard and close, like he would drag the truth out of him, and the doctor met his look free and open. You would of thought Colonel Tom was saying with his look: “You _must_ tell me the truth.” And the doctor with his was answering: “I _have_ told you the truth.” “But, Tom,” says the doctor, “that letter she wrote you from Chicago must--” “Do you know what Lucy wrote?” interrupts Colonel Tom. “I remember exactly. It was simply: '_Forgive me. I loved him so. I am happy. I know it is wrong, but I love him so you must forgive me_.'” “But couldn't you tell from _that_ we were married?” cries out the doctor. “She didn't mention it,” says Colonel Tom. “She supposed that her own family had enough faith in her to take it for granted,” says the doctor, very scornful, his face getting red. “But wait, Dave,” says Colonel Tom, quiet and cool. “Don't bluster with me. There are still a lot of things to be explained. And that marriage is one of them. “To go back a bit. You say you got to the house somewhere around ten o'clock that evening and found Lucy gone. Do you remember the day of the month?” “It was November 14, 1888.” “Exactly,” says Colonel Tom. “I got to Chicago at six o'clock of that very day. And I went at once to the address in Lucy's letter. I got there between seven and eight o'clock. She was gone. My thought was that you must have got wind of my coming and persuaded her to leave with you in order to avoid me--although I didn't see how you could know when I would get there, either, when I thought it over.” “And you have never seen her since,” says Armstrong, pondering. “I _have_ seen her since,” says Colonel Tom, “and that is one thing that makes me say your story needs further explanation.” “But where--when--did you see her?” asts the doctor, mighty excited. “I am coming to that. I went back home again. And in July of the next year I heard from her.” “Heard from her?”