"You'rethe penetrating one now, madam!" he jested. "As a matter of fact, you're quite wrong. Truly, Idon'thate women."
"Honest In'jun?" she smiled. "Then"—dropping her voice—"why have you avoided me so often?"
"Avoided—you?" Real astonishment seemed to move him. He was at a loss now. Was she serious? "Oh, but you're joking."
"No, I'm not," she pouted. "You've passed me on the parade-ground dozens of times without a word. You've seen me at the window when you inspect in the morning——"
"Mrs. MacFarlane"—he still smiled but his tones were earnest—"if I've ever passed you without speaking, it was because I was in a hurry. And you know, of course, on parade——"
"I know, I know," she laughed reassuringly. It was not safe to go too far; and the limit had been reached. "But don't crush me more than you can help. Nothing hurts a woman more than to be utterly overlooked by a handsome man."
Her eyes fawned over him. He deliberately let the compliment pass.
"At least you'll admit, now, I'm not a woman-hater?"
"U-m-m!" She was still doubtful. Then, insinuatingly, with a languid glance, "Perhaps not. But your heart—has it ever been——?"
He read the rest: 'Has your heart ever been given in vain?' This was an outrageous probing into a hidden wound no-one had ever dared before. After the first shock, an impulse to put her violently in her place, as he well knew how to do, flashed upon him. But he was too chivalrous for that—and besides, it would betray his secret. So he answered with a smile:
"No, never."
"Never?"
She lifted her eyes and cooed the word. Cleopatra caught Mark Antony by such methods.
"Never."
"Oh, I can't believe that. Major, you were made—just made—to be a hero of romance."
"Do you think so?"
He was ironically amused.
"Yes, I do. Many's the pretty woman who has kissed your feet." Figuratively speaking, it was quite true, and Hector knew it. She laughed merrily, a hand on his arm. "Listen: I'm going to do something no-one's ever had the grit to do before!"
"You've done that already."
She was entertaining him, in a way.
"Have I? Oh, good. Well, listen—how your men would admire me if they knew what I presumed to say!—but it's for your good. Major, don't be a monk—a hermit. When a pretty woman comes along, don't shut your eyes. Pretty women and handsome men are made for one another!"
Her intense womanliness, her warmth, brightness, colour, perfume, were very near him. Despite himself, he felt their presence and a hint of their allurement. He was a strong man, physically——
But he answered, rather stiffly:
"Thank you!"
The concert rolled on. She looked at her programme:
'Song: accompanied by guitar: 'A Game of Cards' Constable Humphries.'
"Oh, it's that sweet thing again!" she breathed in Hector's ear. "Don't you think he's wonderful?"
"Very!"
The C.O., from Olympus, to please her, looked down upon the Marquis, his wayward servant, and tossed him a kindly though untruthful word.
In a flutter of applause, the Marquis climbed easily and confidently to the platform. He was a slim young man, black-haired and bronzed, with a short black moustache, beneath which his teeth flashed, white and even, when he smiled. His features were very straight and regular. His eyes looked upon the audience with a kind of bitter humour, as of one who has tasted Life's dregs and bravely bluffs that he has liked them. One glance at the Marquis told Mrs. MacFarlane that every word she had heard of him was true.
He carried a guitar and wore the plain scarlet tunic, blue breeches with yellow stripes and top-boots of a constable.
Dropping carelessly into a chair in the centre of the platform, and smiling sardonically, he began to sing and play. He had a quiet baritone which he used as only an artist can. The tune was the strangest affair, whimsical, yet full of tragedy and the guitar laughed and wept by turns in his mobile hands.
All the irony of broken hearts, false pledges, loves outraged and forgotten, was in the song, the music, the agonized but laughing voice:
The maid was fair as a maid could be—Queen of a hundred hearts was she—And out of the shuffling pack she knewShe drew a suitor she thought might do(A common habit of flighty maids).The lucky card was the Jack of Spades—As poor as a rat but fair of face,A humble fellow who knew his place,So she gave him her hand when he made his plea,Thus raising the fool to an ecstasy.
But another person lived in the pack,The handsome, rollicking Diamond Jack—I think you'll find, when my tale you've heard,The Knave of Diamonds the better word.It's easy to see how the tricks turned out,For Diamonds are trumps the world about.She flung the Jack and his ring away,Which wasn't exactly the game to play,And, crushed and broken, she left him there—But—what in the Deuce should the Lady care?
Then slowly, on a dying note of laughter, the last line was repeated, to trail away into silence:
—What in the Deuce should the Lady care?
And in a flash the Marquis was off the platform.
"Well, what a funny song!" Mrs. MacFarlane declared, applauding vigourously. "I'm sure there's a lot in it, Major. Probably it refers to something in his past—don't you think so?"
"Undoubtedly."
Again the ironical note struck her.
"You're laughing at me," she sulked prettily. "You shouldn't!—if we're going to be the good friends we ought to be."
Before Hector could reply, MacFarlane came up. He was obviously throbbing with jealousy.
Mrs. MacFarlane read his mood and was secretly amused. She loved to torment him. But she made no reference to his annoyance.
"So glad you've come, old Mac," she said, hand outstretched.
Though he had interrupted hertête-à -têtewith Hector, she forgave him. She felt that she had done a good night's work already.
In the morning Hector interviewed the talented Marquis and warned him to be a good boy. The Marquis promised that he would.
I
The Superintendent's servant, Constable Blythe, was laying out his master's mess uniform. The hour was six o'clock in the evening. A fortnight had passed since the holding of the concert.
Constable Blythe was a man of middle age and not ill-looking, originally hailing from some one of Her Majesty's far-flung Dominions—no-one knew which. Like many other Mounted Policeman, he had adventured into a thousand strange places and a dozen queer trades before joining the Force. Of these earlier phases of his history, little was known. But full details of his service in Her Majesty's forces, which he had embellished for many years in other climes, were available to those who sought them. And Blythe, though of a naturally silent disposition, had no aversion to furnishing these details. In fact, when introduced to the riding-school, he had proclaimed them at full voice. The horse had gently removed him.
"Here, I thought you said you could ride?" thundered the riding master.
"What, me?" shrieked Blythe indignantly. "I'm a marine, Gord boil yer, not a cent-ure!" (He possibly meant 'centaur').
Result: brought up before the C.O.—who happened to be Hector—for using insubordinate language to his superior officer.
"I can't ride, sir!" he had pleaded tearfully—for a Blythe, he was at all times the most lugubrious man in the world—"They don't have 'em on board ship. I'm a Royal Marine, sir!"
"Then you shouldn't have joined a mounted corps." Hector's lips closed like a vise. "C.B. and more riding for you, my lad."
But when Blythe had demonstrated his point conclusively by being bucked off for months on end, Hector at last took pity on him. A credit to the Royal corps, he did everything else beautifully and, like all Marines, knew the duties of an officer's servant backwards. That was four years ago. And Blythe had served him devotedly ever since.
Hector came in.
Blythe jumped to attention.
"Well, Blythe—" with a nod towards the carefully folded paper, purchased ten minutes before, Hector pronounced the usual formula, "is there anything interesting in theProphettonight?"
But Blythe for once did not make the usual response: 'Nothin' to speak of, sir.' Instead, with considerable agitation, sternly suppressed, he answered, as he drew off Hector's coat:
"Bit on the front page, sir, about us. P'raps you've seen it?"
"No. Where is it?"
Blythe handed over the paper. Hector's face grew dark with the severity that could make a division tremble.
Splashed across the page was the heading: 'Do New Brooms Always Sweep Clean?'
And, beneath the heading, this paragraph:
'According to the old saw, "New Brooms Always Sweep Clean." We think this saying needs revision. We are led to think so by the strange slackening of the bonds of discipline which until lately held a certain instrument of the law quartered in Broncho in constant control. Last night, our pride in the organization to which we refer received a rude shock. Details are not necessary. The outrageous conduct of the member of this force, who reeled up and down Main St., using the most blasphemous language and shooting up the town, until gathered in by the patrol nearly an hour afterwards, is too fresh in our memories to require full description. This is only one of the many incidents which, since the change in command was made, we have shudderingly anticipated. We do not blame the men. We blame the leader.'
The paragraph, as Hector, of course, knew, dealt with the 'outrageous conduct' of the Marquis, who, on the previous night, had enjoyed, for the first time since his transference to Broncho, a spree in town and who was now in the cells, awaiting punishment. Equally, of course, the 'leader' referred to was himself.
Following his first interview with the M.P. for Broncho, Hector had set going a part of the complicated machinery which was at his disposal, as a Police officer, with the object of discovering Molyneux's true identity. These investigations had proven fruitless. It is not easy to trace a man's antecedents back through utter obscurity to a point fifteen years' distant; and Welland—if it was Welland—had covered his tracks too well. Hector had learned that no-one—not even Jim Jackson or MacFarlane—connected the successful politician of Broncho with the unsuccessful criminal Hector had driven from the country. Why should they? Without a scrap of real evidence, Hector had realized that he could do nothing to denounce his man. Yet he was absolutely certain that Molyneux was Welland. Since their first meeting, he had observed many things, small in themselves but great in the aggregate, which his tenacious memory recognized as traits of the one-time cattle-thief and whiskey-smuggler. But, failing definite evidence which would hold in a court of law, he knew that he must treat him, not for what he had been, but for what he was. He must deal with Molyneux, at least outwardly, as Molyneux, not as Welland. The fight—if fight it was to be—must of necessity be fought with the weapons, not of the past, but of the present.
And this paragraph told him definitely that fight there was to be. It was his business to know how theProphetwas controlled; and he knew that it was controlled by Molyneux's party, if not by Molyneux himself, and was edited by one of Molyneux's friends. That was enough. On the surface, to those who knew not Molyneux's true identity, the paragraph represented a well-merited—or cowardly, according to their lights—attack on Superintendent Adair by a paper supporting—or, as some knew, virtually controlled by—the politician. But actually, as Hector knew, and Welland knew, but no-one else knew or would know, it was the opening shot in the ex-criminal's campaign of revenge.
On Welland's side, this paragraph told him, the tactics were to be slander, veiled insinuation, deceit cunningly employed in constant endeavour to catch him at a disadvantage and fierce condemnation of any open error in his administration, all tending ultimately to drive Hector out of the Force. On Hector's side, because his hands were tied by his position, he could hope only to match his wits with Welland's whenever an opportunity, real or maliciously created, for an attack by the politician should occur and to frustrate Welland by doing his work so well that there could be no complaint. The stake was, on one hand, personal revenge for what had been, in Welland's eyes, a wrong; on the other, Hector's personal honour and the honour and welfare of his men; the issue, Politics versus Patriotism.
This was the conflict which Hector felt approaching as he read that paragraph in theProphet.
Remembering the issue, and holding the item as at least a malicious and exaggerated attack on his own men, whom it was his duty to protect, he felt hot resentment boil through him. Then his thought went to the Marquis, who had given the paper—and Welland—this opening, the drunken waster he was to reform. Men like that brought discredit on any corps!
The Marquis was 'for it.' 'It' was 'coming to him.'
II
A few days after the Marquis had been banished to the cells for his misdeeds, Blythe sprang a second surprise on his C.O. Hector came in to change for mess.
"Beg pardon, sir, but—but a girl's waitin' to see you—been here all afternoon."
"A girl?" asked Hector. "What does she want?"
"She wouldn't say, sir."
"Well, tell her to see me at the Orderly Room in the morning."
"I told her that, sir, but she says it's privit', sir. Wants to see you alone, sir. I told her to go, but she swore she'd wait. 'No women allowed in barracks after Retreat,' I says. 'Garn, chase yerself. You go an' retreat!' she says. 'I'm goin' to see Major Adair.'
"All right. Show her in."
The girl was very young and not bad-looking. She was, in fact, pretty, with big eyes, clear complexion and blue-black hair. She wore a home-made dress of more or less fashionable cut and a saucy little hat trimmed with a marvellous assortment of flowers.
Her air, on entering, was one of bravado, but a glance at Hector quite banished it and she hesitated, nervously entwining her hands, near the door. Blythe surveyed her with ill-concealed triumph. She had been very bold until confronted by the great 'Spirit-of-Iron' himself. Where was that boldness now?
"Well, young lady," said Hector kindly. "What can I do for you? Come in and sit down, won't you?"
Still she hesitated.
Finally, in a husky whisper, she answered, "Please, sir, I'd rather stand."
"All right," he replied good-humouredly. "But won't you tell me what you want?"
"It's—it's private. I wanta see you—alone."
She glanced maliciously at Blythe.
"Leave us for a moment, please, Blythe," said Hector.
"Yessir."
"Now my girl—but first—what's your name?"
She took a few steps forward. His quiet voice and friendly eyes gave her confidence.
"My name's Nellie—Nellie Lavine. I'm a waitress at theGolden WestCafé (she pronounced it 'Kaif'), an' I've come—about—about one o' your men, Major Adair."
"Yes?"
"Gennlemun by name Mr. Humphries."
The Marquis! What the devil had he been up to? Instantly Hector's mind flashed to the Marquis, in the cells.
"He's—he's—my—my beau—my fellow."
She challenged and defied him with her eyes.
"I congratulate—er—Mr. Humphries on his good taste. Are you his—girl?"
She simpered.
"Ye-yes. That's to say—well, I'm darn sure he's mine. That pink-faced little goo-goo at Young's dance-hall; an' that Smith kid—father's a rancher an' she wears cow-gal clothes an' thinks she owns the place—they say he's theirs. But he ain't. He's mine, 'cause he says so."
She finished on a note of triumph.
"Well, in that case," Hector smiled, "it must be so. Go on."
He was wondering if tragedy lay ahead.
"Mr. Humphries—he's my fellow. An'—an'—you've put him in jug, Major Adair!"
The last was an accusation meant to wither him; but, somehow, it failed.
"I'm sorry, Miss Lavine. I had to."
"Had to?"
"Yes. The regulations lay down certain penalties for drunkenness and I have to carry them out."
"But, Major—the poor boys—"
"Are fine boys. But thoroughbreds need the strong hand. Now, don't work yourself up, young lady. You can't understand."
"I think—you're—damn crool!" she whimpered, feeling herself beating against an immense stone wall. "You—might—give him a chance!"
"Did he send you here to plead for him?" Hector flashed.
"No, he didn't! No!"
She stamped her foot.
"All right," he said quietly. "I believe you—otherwise I wouldn't listen. You think I might give him a chance?"
"Please, sir."
Penitent she was now and supplicating in her woman's way.
"He's had lots of chances—lots of chances. Do you think he's worth all this?"
"Sure he is." She was very confident. "And, I love him."
"How long have you known him—he's only been here about three weeks, remember."
"About—that, I guess," she faltered. "But I know he's all right. He's a gennelmun—a real one—an' all he needs is a chance."
"You're a stout little lover," said Hector gently. "But he's a hard one to save. Is that what you're trying to do?"
She hung her head.
"Yes," she whispered. Then, pleadingly, "Oh, Major,—please, Major—if you'd ever loved like I do—"
"How do you know I have not?" he asked.
"All the better, then! Oh, Gee, I'm crazy about him—just crazy—an' he is, too—about me, I mean. Why, he writespomestome!"
"Does he?" Hector thought of the Marquis' reputation as a lady-killer and wondered how many women could say the same thing. "May I see one?"
"Ah-ah—s-a-y—!"
"Come along," he encouraged, "as proof!"
"There!"
From the bosom of her dress she fished a sachet. Out of this she extracted a bit of paper, which she handed over to Hector, smiling prettily. Then she walked away to hide her confusion in the shadows.
Hector read, in the strong handwriting of the Marquis:
The land was still, by parching drought possessed—A desert waste. From out the sullen skyThe sun beat down. Her burnt and barren breastLay naked to his wrath. She longed to die—Exhausted, now by months of endless pain....Till, suddenly, the far horizon's rimTrembled with lightning and the day grew dim,Great thunders rolled and, roaring, then—the rain!
And lo! Where sorrow thrived and death had been,Gladness and life returned. The hopeless herdsCame drifting back and all the land was green,Fragrant and fresh and loud with singing birdsReturning thanks.... O, say you understand....The rain,—it was your love; my heart the land!
Could the Marquis, after all, be genuinely in love with this girl?
"Thank you, Miss Lavine."
He returned the paper. She took it hastily. Her eyes shone.
"Well?" she asked.
"I'm satisfied. But—won't you take my warning?"
"Say, I can look after myself. I wasn't born yesterday!"
There was some pique in her voice.
"Weren't you?" he asked quaintly. Then, suddenly, he rose and stood beside her. "Listen, little girl. I'm trying to save Humphries myself."
"Eh—Oh, Major—" She looked at him delightedly. "Gee, you're a good scout! An' I thought I was scart of you!"
Hector smiled faintly.
"You want me—to be easier on him in future?"
"That's it, please, sir!"
"Then we'll do our best to pull him up—together. But it's a secret, mind you!"
"Oh, Gee—" she began again.
"A secret, remember! Good-bye!"
He held out his hand. She clasped it swiftly.
"By golly, Major—you're—" she exclaimed rapturously.
"That'll do!" he answered. "Good-bye."
"I wonder what he really is?" he asked himself, when the girl had gone. "Sound at heart or—?"
"Well, I'll spare him for a bit," he decided. "Till he really does kick over the traces."
But something soon altered that resolution.
III
The window of Hector's den commanded a view of the married officers' quarters, and of the back door of MacFarlane's house, which was nearest.
It was a sunny afternoon, peaceful as a dream, undisturbed by any sound other than the buzz of flies and the distant thump of a football from the recreation field. Suddenly this peace was broken by a guitar, playing softly, lightly, a gay fragment of tune. The music was pleasant, as it emphasized the calm of the afternoon.
Hector put down his book. Only one man in the division played the guitar—the Marquis, newly out of the cells. He had taken his stand outside the window of Mrs. MacFarlane's kitchen.
Presently the music swung into a jolly little Spanish tune and the Marquis, very softly, in his rich voice, began to sing a ridiculous composition of his own:
Senor-ee-ta, Senor-ee-ta—Caramba, you surely look sweet-a!When you wink-a like dat—Pecadillo! My hat!—You mak-a my heart-a go pit-a-pit-pat!Senor-ee-ta, Carmin-ee-ta,I tell you we got-a to meet-a!I'll be mit you tonight in da moon of de light,Tomato—staccato-Ta-Ta! (The guitar:) Pom-pom-pom!
"The idiot!" Hector thought. But he could not help smiling.
The Marquis waltzed on. Then, for a moment, came silence.
Presently Hector heard a gentle tapping on the kitchen window and the voice of the Marquis, plaintively:
"Oh, Al-ice! I'm waiting!"
Alice was MacFarlane's fairly pretty and decidedly buxom cook.
"Alice! A-a-lice! Wherefore art thou, A-a-l-ice?"
The window was opened.
"Wot, you 'ere again? I thought you was in the cells."
The voice was reproving but held a hint of coquetry.
"Were, Alice—were! Not 'was'."
"Well, why 'aven't you come to see me before?"
"My dear Alice, duty called. Besides, I've got to avoid the Big Chief, y'know."
"Yes, I should think so!" Alice was indignant. "Goin' off on the tear like that!"
"A-a-h, Alice! I came here for sympathy, not a lecture. The C.O. gives me all the lecturing I want!"
This, Hector reflected, was not strictly true.
"Go-hon! Comes 'ere for sympathy! Comes 'ere for my mince pies, y'mean!"
"Alice, that's not like you. Mind you, your mince pies are very, very good, my sweet. Your own fair hands—"
"Naughty boy!" Alice giggled. "Oh,dolook aht! They're allfloury!"
"I care not!" the Marquis responded passionately. "It's all right. It's only my fatigue dress."
Followed whispering. Then the Marquis sighed:
"Er—you haven't by any chance—got one—of those pies handy, have you, Alice?"
"Well, I never! 'Ere, wait a minute, then. Missus is out, so it's all right."
After a short silence the Marquis spoke again, thickly, through pastry:
"You know, you're a bit of a good sort, Alice, my dear."
"Ga-awn!" cooed Alice softly. Hector imagined her passing her hand over the Marquis' crisp black hair. "Y're not so bad yerself, Marky! But I wish...."
"Now, Alice——" he was very earnest, "don'tpreach."
Alice sighed.
"A-right. Finish yer pie, then!"
The Marquis complied. Hector guessed that he wiped his lips delicately, with a silk handkerchief.
"De-licious, Alice! Fair Hebe, fit for Gods! But tell me—how'd you like the serenade—the new song? Composed in the cells—durance vile, Alice. Romantic, eh?"
"I think it's—silly," declared the cook pettishly.
"Oh, Alice! And it was meant for you!"
"We-ll, the music ain't bad."
She was melting under his charm.
"So glad! It's founded on Don Juan, Alice."
"Wan? 'Oo's 'e?"
"A great Spaniard—noted for his fidelity—like me. Shall I sing you another verse? Now, I want you to imagine it: you're a Spanish lady—at your lattice—an old castle—mountains behind—the moon, big as a cart-wheel—blue night—and down below, among the roses—me." His voice sank almost to a whisper. Then, brightly, "Got it?"
"Ye-es! 'Ow youcantalk! Better than the 'Family 'Ear-old,' any day!"
The guitar resumed its playing and the Marquis sang:
Senor-ee-ta, Senor-ee-ta,I love-a your hands and your feet-a.It will mostly be bliss when we hug an' we kissLak' dis-a, lak' dat-a, lak' dat-a, lak' dis!Senor-ee-ta, Carmin-ee-ta,I t'ink-a you hard-a to beat-a!An' I lov' you each day more dan ever can say—Stupendo-crescendo—Ping-pong! (The guitar:)Pom-pom-pom!
Again came a long silence, filled with whispering. And,
"Idolove yer, Marky!" sighed Alice softly.
Hector's impulse was to laugh—till he remembered Nellie Lavine. That evening he spoke to Bland—Bland, who had been with him when he arrested 'Red-hot' Dan and was now his Sergeant-Major:
"This Humphries is a bit of a Lothario, isn't he?"
"Well, sir," responded Bland, smiling after the fashion of privileged Sergeant-Majors, "when he was with me at Slide-out, he had twenty signed pictures of girls,—real girls, not actresses—tacked round his bunk."
After that, Hector resolved to smash the Marquis, when next that gentleman misbehaved himself.
But again Fate intervened.
IV
Once more the Superintendent and the M.P.—Hector and the so-called Mr. Molyneux—sat in the latter's office, face to face.
The situation had changed considerably since their last meeting under the politician's roof, two months before.
Welland's fears of Hector had by this time vanished. As Hector had done nothing to unmask him, he was confident that his disguise had not been penetrated and that he might therefore proceed with his amiable plans at leisure.
With returning confidence, Welland had become bolder. TheProphetand other papers of its calibre in other parts of the West and a few even in the East, had incessantly attacked Hector's administration. These attacks, so far, had dealt with small matters in a small way, but they were too frequent to be pleasant or to be overlooked. The time was not ripe for a strong offensive against Hector himself. In the first place, no opening had presented itself. Secondly, the people's confidence in him had yet to be undermined. Hector knew that the patient blows of the hidden miners, however, were beginning to have effect. Fastening on some garbled story in the papers, men would say, "That's so! I never thought of that"—quite forgetting that there might be another side to the story and that Hector was powerless to publish it. Welland was speeding the good work by occasional thunders which were meant to damage Hector. Like most politicians, Welland was an adept at hiding wasps in bouquets, a fact he had demonstrated to Hector on several unpleasant occasions.
The latest presentation—a small but poisonous barb, quite undisguised—was an item in theProphet, containing a series of half-truths worse than lies and stupidly inspired. Hector had come to the so-called Molyneux to tell him so and to explain his position.
Behind a big cigar, hard eyes half closed, face and body immobile, the politician sat back and listened.
Hector was pointing out the injustices perpetrated by the papers—not to defend himself from their attacks so much as to hold them up for what they were. Naturally, he spoke as any Superintendent would speak to any politician under similar circumstances and not as Hector would have spoken to Welland as Welland.
"Now this sort of thing is bad—bad!" he asserted forcibly, "Whether the motive is honest or not, it shakes the faith of the people in the Force. Even if the item is accurate and the attacks are justified, it still shakes the faith of the people. It makes our work ten times more difficult. Take some of these attacks on the conduct of our men. They make for discontent in the ranks because they are false and because the men can do nothing to protect themselves. The best regiment in the world has an occasional drunk in it. But it resents fiercely an allegation classifying every man in the regiment with that drunk. Now, that's what has been happening here lately. Not long ago, you'll remember, one of our fellows shot up the town. Well, he did wrong. He was dealt with. And, mark my words, if I don't break him, the men will. They always do. They'll drive him out of the Force. Then isn't that good enough? No; the papers must immediately raise an uproar against the man, against the Force, against me. They forget what these men do. On duty they risk death. They endure awful loneliness in places where they never see a card, a drink, a woman. If occasionally—they overstep themselves when they return—what wonder? But no consideration is given that side of the case. I'm not defending irregularities. They're wrong. But the man to deal with them ishere——" he tapped his breast, "not down in the offices of theProphet. Do you blame me if I resent these intrusions?"
Welland, without removing his cigar, said:
"Well,Ican't stop it, Major! What do you want me to do?"
There was leering triumph in the assertion.
"When we first met, Mr. Molyneux, you promised me your support."
"Yes. And I said I'd go for any inefficiency. I've done it."
"Always without justification."
"That's your opinion."
"And the truth. I want to be friends with you. Leave your share in the assault out of it." Hector swallowed the humble pie—with a great effort—for the good of his cause. "I want your help—not for myself—if this thing goes on, I can fight it alone——" The politician, observing the great chest and shoulders and the steel-coloured eyes in the rugged face, felt a sharp sense of his opponent's indomitable strength. "Your help—to stop as much of this unjust criticism as possible. That will improve efficiency, stamp out crime and leave the men—my men—alone. You don't know my point of view, Molyneux. I hold every man in my division——" he spoke very earnestly and quietly—"in the hollow of my hand. I can make their lives Heaven or Hell. Knowing this, they look to me for justice. I try to give it. They look to me forprotection. By God, they're going to have it!"
His fist crashed on the table.
"You were saying—about me——?" said Molyneux smoothly.
"I want your help—no, not your help, but simply justice from you, that's all. I want you, for example, to muzzle theProphet."
"I don't control theProphet. The Editor's a friend of mine but I've got little influence with him. Don't ask impossibilities, Major."
Hector knew that Molyneux lied. But, again, he had to accept the assertion.
"I believe you could point outthisto him. His campaign goes too far when it publishes such an item as this about Demon George, the American outlaw. It's really that item I came to see you about."
"Have you got it there? Read it."
"No, I won't read it. It's just the worst of the series on that particular subject. You know what they all amount to: 'This outlaw, who killed four men in Texas five years ago, has appeared in town. He has been recognized. Broncho is in a panic. Yet the Mounted Police don't arrest him. Why? They must have descriptions, etc., etc. They ought to have done so as soon as he entered the district. The truth probably is that they have not even discovered his presence. Asleep at the switch, as usual. Or they think it wiser to avoid his guns. This could not have happened before the change in command.' That's about the sum total of it all."
"Do you want to know what I think of that, Major Adair?" asked the politician abruptly. "While I don't agree with all that dirty stuff about your being afraid of this outlaw and so on—I consider that item and those that accompanied it justified. In fact, I suggested it myself. Again, understand, I had nothing to do with the dirty side; but I suggested the publication. Men who knew Demon George came to me and told me he was in town. I waited to see if you were sharp enough to spot him. Days passed and you took no action, when you ought to have jugged him at once. Then I gave the facts to theProphet, advising them to send a reporter up to you to see if you knew of that man's presence. The reporter was told to say nothing, I believe, but just to sound you out. He saw you personally. You knew nothing. That convinced the Editor you were asleep. So he published that attack. I think, in the main, it was deserved. Why, even now, that bird is still in town, letting on as if he owns it and everyone was afraid of him. The paper opened your eyes. But you've done nothing yet. That's what I call inefficiency."
The politician had thrown down his cards with a vengeance!
"So that's how the land lies?" said Hector. It was his turn now. "Listen to me, Mr. Molyneux. I believe you're sincere but I'm going to show you just where you went wrong, sir. Take this in a friendly spirit, please. As a prominent man here, it was your duty to advise me of this man's arrival. Had it been necessary, I could then have arrested him. As it is, you send—or your Editor friend sends—a reporter and he more or less asks me if there are any sensational arrests in prospect or any distinguished criminals in town. We don't give such information, Mr. Molyneux, unless the net is already so closely round our man that publication can do no harm. Naturally, I sent the reporter away. Immediately you jump at conclusions and theProphetpublishes the news of Demon George's arrival and says I'm asleep—either way, with bad effect. Demon George is told that his presence is known and so warned to make his getaway if he wants to. Or it makes him perky, encourages him to stay on here in defiance of me and perhaps, eventually, to break the law. Supposing he gets away? Then theProphetis delighted. An outlaw has escaped, but that doesn't matter, because they can say 'I told you so!' and go for me again. Supposing he stays and breaks the law? An innocent party suffers! Wouldn't it have been better for you to have advised me of this man's presence, so that his capture might be assured?"
In spite of himself, the politician shifted uneasily under the keen gaze.
"Let me tell you why Demon George is still at liberty. As it happens, I was immediately informed as soon as he set foot in the place. But I had nothing to arrest him on—no description from the States—remember, the crime is five years old—nothing but insinuations from men who might owe him a grudge. I took the best course open to me, Mr. Molyneux, under the circumstances—wired the Yankee officials, did my best to keep the thing dark—unfortunately, theProphetspoilt my plan—and had the man constantly shadowed. So far I'm still waiting for news—Texas is a long way off, five years a long time. But Demon George has obligingly remained in town, out of bravado, and sooner or later will give me grounds for arresting him. Or, if he tries to leave, I'll jail him on suspicion. TheProphethasn't made a fool of me—only of itself!"
The politician was utterly at a loss. He saw that his shot had missed. As soon as the American outlaw was actually in jail, Hector's apparent apathy would be explained. The citizens of Broncho, at present worked up to some hostility, would see that the Superintendent had done right and had been at all times conversant with every move of Demon George. They would swing round to their old love and theProphetwould be discredited.
Unable, for the moment, to meet the situation, Welland assumed the friendliest aspect and said:
"Well, Major, I congratulate you. I was wrong. Now, what do you want me to do?"
Hector took his triumph quietly.
"Keep theProphetquiet till I've landed Demon George. And prevent similar blunders in future," he answered.
"I told you I don't control theProphet," said Welland. "So I can't promise. But I'll do my best."
"That's all I want," replied Hector, rising. "I knew you'd help. Goodbye."
With Hector's departure, Welland sat down to think. The interview had shocked him severely. His opponent was not going to go down tamely, he saw that. Moreover, he was apparently confident that he could defend himself single-handed. Welland had honestly believed that in the matter of Demon George, Hector had been caught napping. Furthermore, Hector's appeal for silence, while humbling the Superintendent, acted as a drag on Welland for the future. After what Hector had said, he could not very well continue his attacks. He wanted Demon George to escape, so that theProphet'scampaign might deeply impress the people. But his escape now seemed impossible.
Presently, however, the politician took heart. Had the outlaw not been closely watched, he would have warned him, so that the escape might be brought about, but the Police would certainly trace back that warning to its source—himself. That would never do. A better course would be to urge on theProphetanew. Demon George might thus be warned and the people be further incited against Hector. He had said that he could not muzzle the paper and had no direct control over it—a lie; but Hector, he argued, did not know it a lie. He could tell Hector that his efforts to silence his Editor friend had failed. And, whether the outlaw was or was not taken, further damage might still be done to Hector. TheProphetcould wriggle out of its own trap afterwards, if necessary.
"By God, he hasn't won yet!"
Whereupon he scrawled secret instructions to theProphetfor a renewal of the 'Demon George campaign.'
V
The moon lay white on the barracks and 'Lights Out' had long since sounded. The Marquis, having escaped detection with that unfathomable cunning common to drunken men, climbed in at the open window of his own barrack-room and crept over to his cot—safe!
No-one had been disturbed by his entry. But for the even breathing of his sleeping comrades, all was quiet. His brain was twirling a roseate heaven full of lights and music. He was very happy. He did not feel like going to bed. He wanted to sing. Many tunes and pictures were dancing madly in his head—strains and scenes culled from happenings of the night—from days long past, too. Now he was drinking with a ring of convivial punchers, now with a group of Sandhurst cadets. Ripping place, Sandhurst had been—jolly rags——
The thought of 'rags' suddenly gave him the diabolical idea: 'Haven't had a rag for a hick of a time. Why not now?' But what? What? Suddenly came glorious inspiration. He was said to have once 'shot up' the town. Well, why not——? And Bacchus answered, 'Why not, old chap, why not?'
First—in a colossal struggle—he removed his boots. Then he tip-toed from cot to cot. The moonlight, streaming in, enabled him to see quite plainly and his comrades slept on with miraculous tenacity. From the head of each cot he removed the occupant's weapons—carbine and revolver—and all his ammunition. He heaped the carbines and their ammunition under his own bed. The revolvers he carefully loaded and set in rows on the bed, together with the surplus revolver ammunition. By the time he was finished—it took a long time—he had cornered every weapon in the room.
"By Jove," he told himself joyously, "this'll make old Spit-an'-Polish sit up!"
The Marquis' first shot stirred the hair of the corporal in charge and lodged in the wall behind. The second rang with a bell-like note against the cot of the next man. Then he blazed off a string of shots, each in the general direction of a cot, so that he traversed the whole room. Drunk as he was, the Marquis did not shoot to kill. He aimed only to miss—closely. His aim was wonderfully accurate. Whiskey improved it. In moderation, whiskey often performs such miracles. The Marquis was not 'blind'—merely inebriated.
The corporal in charge, uttering one wild yell, bounced out of bed and glanced, bewildered, round the room. The men sat up in turn, making a thousand blasphemous comments. Was it fire or had another revolt broken out? The Marquis sent a shot between the corporal's agitated legs and accelerated his fire. That was enough. The corporal went to ground under his cot and the men followed his example.
Followed a moment's silence, painful after the uproar of the firing. Some of the men, putting forth venturesome heads, spotted the well-known figure, squatting on his bed like a pirate on a sea-chest, a smoking revolver in each hand, a devilishly happy smile on his handsome face.
"It's the Marquis, fellows!"
"You bet it is!" the Marquis grinned, showing his white teeth, "I'm in command of this-hic- outfit! Take cover!"
Once more the storm of bullets roared. Every head vanished as if shot back by a common string.
"Haven't any of you got a gun?" the corporal asked plaintively.
"Not me, corp. Not me," ran through the room.
"No, sir. I've got 'em all, Corporal!" laughed the Marquis, emphasizing his remark with a shot that gouged the floor near the N.C.O.'s bed.
This was a pretty situation. They were at the mercy of a drunken lunatic.
The Marquis began the National Anthem, firing a shot in the direction of a cot with each note. His own bed was in a corner, where it could not be assailed, commanded every window and faced the door. His strategical position was perfect.
The room, but for the firing, was absolutely silent and without movement. Here was a case where discretion was decidedly the better part of valour.
By this time, the other barrack-rooms had been roused and the guard had turned out. Through the thunderclaps raised by the Marquis their anxious calls could be heard. A crowd appeared at a window and someone cried "I'll bet it's the Marquis!"
"You're damn-hic-jolly well right!" said the Marquis, scattering the crowd with a shot through the open window.
The guard, arriving outside the door, held a consultation. Meanwhile, to keep his grip on things, the Marquis sent shots regularly through the door. Presently the sergeant of the guard bellowed:
"Best drop it, Marquis, an' come quiet!"
"Come an' get me!" laughed the Marquis.
The sergeant of the guard discreetly withdrew to consider the situation.
The room was now full of smoke, the floor strewn with empty shells. In the midst sat the Marquis, one broad grin, blazing like a fire-ship and muttering:
"Jolly rag, eh what? Cheery soul, eh what?"
Arrived the Sergeant-Major, who was given to understand that the Marquis, surrounded by a heap of slain, was shooting up the barrack-room with a Catling gun.
The Sergeant-Major was inordinately brave. He felt the weight of his responsibility and thought that he could cow the Marquis.
Advancing boldly to the door during a lull in the storm, he loudly shouted:
"Humphries, you're under arrest. It's the Sergeant-Major!"
Came the Marquis' pleasant drawl:
"I like you, Sergeant-Major, so please k'way't'oor!"
"What's that?"
"I said I—likeyou. So keep away-hic-from that door!"
The Sergeant-Major clutched the door-knob.
A volley rattled through the shattered panels.
"Itoldyou, Sergeant-Major,keep away!" said the Marquis coolly.
Some of the officers now arrived, including the Adjutant, Forshaw. The Marquis became more uproarious than ever.
Forshaw was well able to deal with any emergency. He made enquiries and calculations.
"Well, get the fire-engine," he ordered at last. "We'll knock him out with the hose."
But when the engine was in position and everything ready, Forshaw, perceiving that the fire had decidedly slackened in the last two or three minutes, peeped into the room from under cover.
"Why, he's asleep!" he whispered, suppressing a laugh.
It was quite true. Peering over the Adjutant's shoulder, the attackers beheld the Marquis, exhausted, his 'rippin' rag' over, slumbering like a child in a litter of empty shells.
Very quietly they took the hero into custody. He did not once open his eyes.
VI
"Sergeant-Major, before we proceed further, I'll see the accused alone."
The Marquis, bareheaded and strictly at attention, between the armed escort, was 'on the carpet' before the C.O. for the offenses he had committed in the barrack-room.
Hector's announcement came to him as a surprise—whether agreeable or otherwise it was still too early to determine. Sergeant-Major Bland was also surprised. But he maintained the utterly impassive expression proper to Sergeant-Majors on such occasions, said "Yes, sir," saluted and marched the escort out.
"Shall I go, too, sir?" asked the Adjutant.
"Yes, please."
The Marquis was now alone before his omnipotent judge. The keen eyes searched his face. Anticipating an unprecedented bursting of the vials of wrath, the Marquis braced his cringing soul to endure the storm.
But the storm came not ... only, after a time, Hector's voice, more sorrowful than angry:
"Humphries, why did you do it?"
The Marquis could not believe his ears.
"Pardon, sir?"
"I say—why did you do it?"
A flicker of a smile flashed across the Marquis' mobile face, at the memory of his 'rippin' rag' but was quickly suppressed.
"I don't know, sir," he faltered, suddenly abashed. The C.O. had a marvellous knack of making people feel small. "Of course, I was drunk, sir."
"Yes but—why were you drunk?"
This was persistency.
"I—I don't know, sir."
The Marquis wished the C.O. would shift his tactics. This quiet enquiry was terrible.
"It's time you dropped it, Humphries. It does you no good. And it's not playing the game with your people."
A sudden pallor came upon the Marquis. He looked like a man trapped.
"My—people, sir?"
"Yes, your people. Everyone knows you're a gentleman born, Humphries—of good family."
The Marquis breathed again.
"Is it fair to them?"
The Marquis, at a loss, bit his lip, hung his head——
"I can't see where they come into this thing, anyway, sir," he said at last. "I'm—I'm on my own."
"They do come into it, though, boy. But leave them aside for a moment—you're a gentleman. You should know better. You disgrace the stock you've sprung from, Humphries, when you go on like this. If only for that reason, I want to help you to—to pull up, before it's too late."
Again the Marquis could not believe his ears. Was this the man who had 'told him off' so thoroughly not long ago?— The terrible 'Spirit-of-Iron,' whose reputation as a handler of delinquents was enough to frighten the hardest sinner into repentance?
"You're wasting time with me, sir," said the Marquis, suddenly bold. In his voice was defiance but defiance strongly blended with despair. "I don't want to be reformed. Anyway,—I'm not worth it."
"Yes, you are"—still the even, passionless tone—"Because you've good blood in you, Humphries, and also, of course, because you're a notorious scapegrace, I mean to help you out. I decided to help you as soon as I'd sized you up. Then—certain things occurred which inclined me towards severity. You'd have got it, too, by Heaven—don't mistake me—but something again intervened for you. I said just now your people came into this thing. Theydocome into it, Humphries!"
The Marquis threw up his head, meeting Hector's eyes with incredulity and frank disbelief. But the C.O. did not seem to see it. Truth was in his face.
"My—people, sir?" the Marquis faltered and again the colour left his face. "I—I don't—I don't think—I understand."
"Listen to this, then, and realize how mistaken you have been and what your conduct really means. This letter was sent me some days ago by the Commissioner, to whom it was addressed. It saved you when I was going to put you down. It mightn't have been necessary to read it at all, had you behaved yourself. But now, I'm afraid it's almost the only thing to have effect."
Then he read the letter, while the Marquis, restless and set-faced, listened, still biting his lip. It was dated from London.
"'Dear Sir:
It is only after much hesitation and with much reluctance that I approach you to solicit your aid in a purely personal matter. Under the circumstances, however, I feel sure you will forgive the intrusion. I find it difficult to find words adequately to express all that is in my heart. I will therefore confine myself to a brief summary of the facts.
My second son, the Hon. Charles Percival Humphries Hardisty, whose portrait I enclose'"—the Marquis winced as Hector read the name and pushed forward the photograph—"'is, I believe, at present serving in your Corps as a constable or trooper. He was, perhaps, our favourite son. He was to have had a Commission in the 1st. Life Guards but, for certain misdemeanors, was forced to leave Sandhurst. We had, I regret to say, hard words on the subject—I am afraid I went too far but the matter involved certain points of honour on which I felt very strongly. And he was high-spirited and headstrong, as I should have remembered. However, to avoid wearying you with painful particulars in which you can have no great interest, I cut off his allowance, or rather reduced it to a minimum, and ordered him to leave the country for the Colonies. He chose Canada. Until some years ago, I made him a monthly remittance and endeavored to set him up as a rancher. He ran so into debt, however, that I eventually told him—again, to my present regret—I would do no more. Reports had come to me that he was leading a wild, worthless life in a small town in the Territories near the ranch whereon he was employed. He then wrote to me, saying I would never hear of him again. Since then, my enquiries have intimated that he had joined the North-West Mounted Police. As he was a fine horseman and fond of soldiering, this is probably so. I have frequently written him, sending the letters by general delivery as I know he would not wish his identity to become known to his comrades but have had no answer. This does not necessarily mean that he has not received them but he is so sensitively proud that he may have decided to ignore them. He is probably using an assumed name but the photograph I enclose will enable you to trace him.
My object in writing you, sir, is to beg you, firstly, to be so good as to ascertain whether my son is actually serving in your Corps; secondly, to entreat you not to be severe on the boy if, as I fear, he has misconducted himself while under your command; thirdly, to enlist your assistance to save him from the ruinous path he has taken; and, finally, to use your influence towards inducing him to reply to my letters, at least advising us of his health and whereabouts. I authorize you to inform him that I have repented of my somewhat hasty judgment and will make amends as far as possible and also to tell him that unless a reconciliation is effected now, I fear it never will be, for the anxiety is slowly killing his mother.
In closing, I again apologize for thus troubling you but feel you but understand. And may God bless your efforts.
Thanking you,Believe me, sir,Yours truly and indebtedly,Hannyngton.'"
A long silence was broken at last by Hector:
"That is the letter ... The photo, Humphries, is of yourself ... the writer is a peer of very old family, Baron Hannyngton ... your father...."
The Marquis neither moved nor spoke.
"Yourfather. Can't you read between the lines, Humphries? All that pride of race and name ... it was hard for him to write that letter.... He's an old man—I looked him up in the Peerage. And he—his heart's broken, Humphries."
The Marquis made an inarticulate little sound but said nothing and remained standing at attention.
"Tell me, Humphries. I want to help you. Was it—a girl?"
The Marquis answered at last, in a jerky voice:
"No, sir. The Sandhurst affair, you mean? It was—oh, a lot of things."
"Was a girl concerned in any way—were you engaged or anything—when you left England?"
"In a way."
The Marquis' lip was trembling.
"You lost her, because of the scandal. Is that it?"
With sure, deft hand the C.O. was dissecting his very soul.
"Yes, sir."
"And that's why—you go on the tear?"
"Partly," the Marquis muttered.
"And why you try to forget—with other women?"
The Marquis nodded, head sinking.
"It's foolish."
"My God, sir," the Marquis burst out suddenly, "you don't understand—you don't know the shame—or what I've lost—or the hopelessness of what's ahead—or——"
His was a cry of agony.
"Steady, boy," replied Hector. "I understand—perfectly. I know—what this has meant to you."
Again came momentary silence.
"Now—about that letter. What do you propose to do?"
"I—I don't know."
"Then I'll tell you. You'll write your father, of course, and make that reconciliation. Why, you're lucky to have a father and mother—and have them care as much. Then you'll stop this nonsense. You'll work hard, get your Commission"—the Marquis flashed an astonished glance at Hector, but it was disregarded,—"go to the top of the tree, make a name for yourself and be able at last to look your people—even that girl of yours—in the face."
"I can't. I can't—it's too late!"
"It'snottoo late. Why, I was once almost as handicapped as you, Humphries. My father died when I was a youngster, my mother's been dead six years. I started as a buck constable. But the officers were good to me—the first Commissioner—and later Commissioners—and Superintendent Denton, who left the Force some time ago. They all helped. Officers don't go down on a man unjustly, Humphries. They're all ready to lend a hand. You think I look on you as only one man in hundreds, too insignificant to care about. But I don't. You're as much to me as any. You're not the first I've helped make good, by any means. And I want to help you. You can make good, if I could. Yes, you can. Now, listen. I'm not going to hammer you this time, though you've deserved it. I'm going to let you off easily. In return, I want you to run straight. And the first time I get the chance, I'll give you an opportunity—a real opportunity—to prove yourself."
But the strain of the interview had been almost more than the Marquis could bear. His father's letter had put him on the rack. And the C.O.'s unexpected kindness had humbled him into the dust. Instead of unreasoning severity he had today, for the first time, sympathy. He began to understand why men loved and feared Hector, to see why he had attained greatness.
"Is it a go?"
"My God, sir—I—don't know—what—to say. You're the first——"
"That'll do," Hector interrupted him. "Then itisa go. Remember—!"
And he called in the Sergeant-Major and escort.
VII
"Well, what is it?" said Hector.
Dandy Jack, the sixteen-year-old, angelical puncher, took off his broad-brimmed slouch hat and smoothed down his elegant clothes—wide, flapping leather chaps faced with silver, grey flannel shirt, spotless mauve silk neckerchief and trimmings.
"Demon George, Major."
"Yes." Hector was instantly alert. "What about him?"
"I know for a fact he stuck up a puncher last night. The puncher's too scart to report it."
"You do? Positive evidence?"
"You bet."
"All right. Go and tell the Sergeant-Major. Then send him over to me."
Dandy Jack departed.
Hector felt triumphant. TheProphet'sclamour, despite Welland's promise, had been very loud of late. Not that Hector had ever expected Welland to try seriously to stop the uproar. His enemy was too deadly an enemy to do that. Many citizens were muttering among themselves, asking why Adair still held his hand? Their criticisms had been hard to bear. But Hector had borne them stoically. The stout confidence of his men and of many other citizens had, of course, helped to make things easier.
He tried not to smile as he thought of what Welland would say when he heard the news: 'Demon George, the outlaw with a price on his head, dead or alive, taken at leisure by the Mounted Police.'
Sergeant-Major Bland came in. Hector gave him his instructions.
"He frequents theMavericksaloon. We'll tell off one man to make the arrest tonight. Warn him to do it quietly—nothing provocative—no gun-play if avoidable—the usual thing——"
"He's a dangerous man, sir. Perhaps two men——"
"No! You know the tradition? Well, look to it. But have a patrol at hand, in case of trouble. A corporal and two men."
"Very good, sir. Have you any suggestions?"
"Corporal Savage, perhaps."
"Yes, sir. And for the arrest? It wants a good, steady——"
"Yes. Humphries."
"Humphries, sir?"
Bland was again surprised.
"Yes, Humphries. And tell Corporal Savage to remind him of our compact; also, that the arrest will be a real service—to me, personally. Humphries will understand."
VIII
The night turned out dark, with scurrying clouds, a rising wind and, now and then, a spatter of rain. The Marquis passed out of the barrack-gate with a cheery word to the sentry and trudged off to town.
He had received his orders that afternoon. He knew exactly what was expected of him. He knew—could he ever forget?—exactly what was meant by 'our compact.' He also knew what the C.O. meant by 'a real service—to me personally.' He had not witnessed theProphet'sattacks for nothing. And he was buoyed up with hope and gratitude and determined to show the C.O. that he had not been merciful in vain.
He got into town and walked steadily through the almost deserted streets. The wooden houses loomed up, damnably cheerless, murky lights glowing dimly from their windows. Some of them, with their pitiful imitation second-storey fronts, reminded him of would-be gentlemen wearing 'dickies.' Now and then doors opened and he heard the tinkle of out-of-tune pianos, the coarse jesting of men. The wretched cow-ponies, tails to wind, reins trailing, waited miserably for their masters. Suddenly the utter squalor, the primitive uncouthness of Broncho, which its citizens considered equal to any old-world capital, came violently home to him and his spirits bumped down to zero.
A drunken remittance man came reeling from a saloon, singing a maudlin strain with 'Piccadilly' for its theme. A stupendous longing touched him, for London, dear old London, and all it meant; his people, his——; and for a moment he saw himself as he had once been—a carefree man about town—in contrast with what he was—an exile, an exiled gentleman-ranker, one of the Lost Legion.
No, by Jove,—not lost! The C.O.'s interest in him was like a light in the universal darkness. He was going to prove himself, make himself, tonight!
Passing theGolden WestCafé, he felt an impulse to go in and talk to Nellie. She was a good-hearted little thing. But he put the thought aside. He regretted, now, that he had played the fool with women—making a game of a serious matter—So he walked on.
Through the night came suddenly a long, swinging, heavy, tramp, tramp, tramp of feet, a musical jingle of spurs—the tramp and jingle of Corporal Savage's patrol.
"That you, Humphries?"
"Yes, Corporal."
The little, bull-necked, rugged-faced N.C.O. halted in the light from a window.
"He's in theMaverick, all right. Take him easy. We'll be standin' by. Don't draw first. An' remember the C.O. expects you to make good."
"Yes, Corporal."
"Right. I'll wait at the corner."
The darkness and rain gulped them up. The Marquis was alone again.
TheMaverickwas but a step away. The Marquis crossed over. The sound of many voices and the ring of glasses swelled into the street.
The Marquis, whistling softly, removed his pea-jacket for greater freedom of movement and hung it over a hitching post. This done, he loosed his revolver. Then he opened the door and entered.
Instantly the hum of voices died. Every eye turned towards the tall young constable in the doorway. Every man knew what his entrance meant.
Demon George, a lanky, powerful, lantern-jawed ruffian in a pair of long boots and an old suit, was leaning against the bar, joking with the bartender, his hat on the back of his head. He was apparently unarmed. Attracted by the general silence, he turned and saw the Marquis. Instantly, his face contracted and the laugh died on his lips. He, too, guessed what the constable had come for.
The Marquis, smiling easily, disregarded the staring crowd and strolled towards him.
"I hear you're looking for a Mounted Policeman," he said smoothly. "Here I am. And I want you."
Perhaps there was an excuse for Demon George. The Law, as he knew it in his own country, shot first and talked afterwards; and there was a price on his head, which only his own hand had kept on his shoulders. That hand now flashed to his hip-pocket.
The Marquis was steeped in the Police tradition; and remembered his C.O.'s wishes.