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In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the trunk. I slaved over it, contacted half a dozen genealogy groups and came up with zilch. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. Either ignorant of the accident, or heedless of it, the foremost horseman pursued his way without even turning his head. She—She can snub him.
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