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"Well," she said. "Why?"

"Why!" he repeated. "Do you know any people at Teebar?"

"No," she answered—and blushed at one of her most painful recollections which the name evoked. "At least—not now."

"No, because the person you once knew, and who lived there, is dead. He was a man called Jensen. I knew him very well. He had a station close by the township."

"Yes," she said, in a stifled way.

"He took to drinking, as you know, and killed himself."

"I did not know. Killed himself?"

"As surely as any man who ever blew his brains out. He did not drink, did he, when you knew him?"

"No. Mr. Blake, I know what you mean, and it is cruel, it is wicked to blame me for that." She half rose in her agitation. "It wasn't my fault that he"

"That he loved you. No, that was certainly not your fault. There must be a great many men who love you. But I was sorry for poor Jensen. He looked a stupid fellow when I knew him, but he was clever enough to write very decent verse. And he looked rather a weak creature, but he was strong enough to be faithful to the one woman he ever loved."

"What did he tell you about me? Don't be afraid of hurting me."

"He told me all that had ever passed between you—his version of course, but it was so detailed that I think it must have been pretty near the truth. You encouraged him a good deal."

"Yes—I encouraged him."

"I think you were engaged to him for two days?"

"I—I said I would marry him—if I could like him well enough."