was a—­a reporter, Sheila, that I happened to be there when Hilliard was hurt.  I was coming home from the night courts.  It was downtown.  At a street-corner there was a crowd.  Somebody told me; ‘Young Hilliard’s car ran into a milk cart; turned turtle.  He’s hurt.’  Well, of course, I knew it’d be a good story—­all that about Hilliard and his millions and his coming from the West to get his inheritance—­it had just come out a couple of months before....”

“His millions?” repeated Sheila.  She slipped off the arm of her chair without turning her wide look from Dickie and sat down with an air of deliberate sobriety.  “His inheritance?” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am.  That’s what took him East.  He had news at Rusty.  He wrote you a letter and sent it by a man who was to fetch you to Rusty.  You were to stay there with his wife till Hilliard would be coming back for you.  But, Sheila, the man was caught in a trap and buried by a blizzard.  They found him only about a week ago—­with Hilliard’s letter in his pocket.”  Dickie fumbled in his own steaming coat.  “Here it is.  I’ve got it.”

“Don’t give it to me yet,” she said.  “Go on.”

“Well,” Dickie turned the shriveled and stained paper lightly in restless fingers.  “That morning in New York I got up close to the car and had my notebook out.  Hilliard was waiting for the ambulance.  His ribs were smashed and his arm broken.  He was conscious.  He was laughing and talking and smoking cigarettes.  I asked him some questions and he took a notion to question me.  ‘You’re from the West,’ he said; and when I told him ‘Millings,’ he kind of gasped and sat up.  That turned him faint.  But when they were carrying him off, he got a-holt of my hand and whispered, ’Come see me at the hospital.’  I was willing enough—­I went.  And they took me to him—­private room.  And a nice-looking nurse.  And flowers.  He has lots of friends in New York—­Hilliard, you bet you—­” It was irony again and Sheila stirred nervously.  That changed his tone.  He moved abruptly and came and sat down near her, locking his hands and bending his head to study them in the old way.  “He found out who I was and he told me about you, Sheila, and, because he was too much hurt to travel or even to write, he asked me to go out and carry a message for him.  Nothing would have kept me from going, anyway,” Dickie added quaintly.  “When I learned what had been happening and how you were left and no letters coming from Rusty to answer his—­well, sir, I could hardly sit still to hear about all that, Sheila.  But, anyway—­” Dickie moved his hands.  They sought the arms of his chair and the fingers tightened.  He looked past Sheila.  “He told me then how it was with you and him.  That you were planning to be married.  And I promised to find you and tell you what he said.”

“What did he say?”