A name was mentioned--his own! His angry hand was on the latch.
One moment more and he would have burst the door, but in that instant another name was uttered--a name that dropped his hand from the latch and the blood from his cheeks.

He staggered backward, passed his hand swiftly across his forehead, recovered himself with a gesture of mingled rage and despair, and, sinking on his knees beside the door, pressed his hot temples against the crack.
"Do I know Lance Harriott ?" said the voice.

"Do I know the d--d ruffian?
Didn't I hunt him a year ago into the brush three miles from the Crossing?
Didn't we lose sight of him the very day he turned up yer at this ranch, and got smuggled over into Monterey?
Ain't it the same man as killed Arkansaw Bob--Bob Ridley--the name he went by in Sonora?
And who was Bob Ridley, eh?
Who?
Why, you d--d old fool, it was Bob Fairley--YOUR SON!" The old man's voice rose querulous and indistinct.
"What are ye talkin' about ?" interrupted the first speaker.

I tell you I _know_.

Look at these pictures.