There came a terrible look into the face of Acey Smith that sent her staggering back in deadly affright. Only by a supreme effort did the man appear to get a grip on himself.
But in another instant he was calm and smiling. “Poor, little Yvonne, my poor, little, faithful Yvonne,” he soothed. “Child, you are just a bit over-strung; you have been working too hard lately. To-night you are going up to Winnipeg, to your father, on a month’s vacation, and I am going to pick out a little present for you when we get over to the city—something by which in after days you may remember one who was not what he should have been, but who thought much of you. Let us forget this little incident for the present. We have work in hand to-day, you and I—big work—and you are going to Kam City with me now to deliver that letter, like a good little girl, aren’t you?”
Like a child that has been chastised, then petted, she warmed under the light caress of his hand, the deep, musical persuasive qualities of his voice and the tremendous, irresistible magnetism of the man.
She looked up at him as of old, tried to meet those soul-searching black eyes with their wicked masterfulness, wavered and nodded acquiescence.
“I knew you would, Yvonne. This,” he announced, “will be the beginning of the North Star’s greatest coup—and its last.”
“Its last?” She echoed it apprehensively.
He did not answer, but sprang to the window, a light of sinister amusement breaking over his face. “Look, Yvonne,” he called. “Come and see what is happening to your preacher friend.”
Down by the docks two mounted policemen were half leading, half dragging the handcuffed Rev. Nathan Stubbs into the police motorboat.
The girl gasped. “Why do you say my friend?” she asked, a quaver in her voice.
“He pretended to be your friend, and you told him what you should not have told him.”