“I grant you that,” she replied quickly. “But it is a shock, when one conceives a man to be something of a gentleman; to have some remnant of the code honorable—then, pah! to find his name a by-word on the frontier. A murderer! Even descended to common theft and dealings in contraband whisky. You have a savory record in these parts, I find. How nicely this chamber fits you, Mr.—ah—what is the euphonious title? Slowfoot George. Ah, yes. Why the Slowfoot? By the tale of your successful elusion of the law I should imagine you exceeding fleet of foot.”
It seemed to me unwomanly and uncalled for, that bitter, scornful speech; even granting the truth of it, which had not been established in my mind. But it had a tonic effect on Barreau. The hurt look faded from his face. His lips parted in the odd, half-scornful, half-amused smile that was always lurking about his mouth. He did not at once reply. When he did it was only a crisp sentence or two.
“Let us be done with this,” he said. “There is neither pleasure nor profit in exchanging insults.”
“Indeed,” she thrust back, “there can be no exchange of insults between us. Could aught you say insult any honest man or woman? But so be it. I came merely to convince my eyes that my ears heard truly. It may tickle your depraved vanity to know that MacLeod is buzzing with your exploits and capture.”
“That concerns me little,” Barreau returned indifferently.
“Ditto,” she averred, “except that I am right glad to find you stripped of your sheep’s clothing, little as I expected such a revelation concerning one who passed for a gentleman. And to think that I might never have found you out, if my father had permitted me to return from Benton.”
“Permitted?” Barreau laid inquiring inflection on the word.
“What is it to——” she cut in sharply.
“Your father,” he interrupted deliberately, “is a despicable scoundrel; a liar and a cheat of the first water.”
“Oh—oh!” she gasped. “This—from you.”