“He was hiding behind the screen. He struck me with something. He swore at his trial he’d get me. I was—a fool not to have remembered his time was out.”
A look, wolf-like and grim, had sprung into the doctor’s face. His eyes searched the room, and he crossed the floor and picked up something from the rug. He looked at it a moment, then thrust it hastily into his breast pocket.
“I—remember now. It was a pistol. He snapped it twice, but it missed fire.”
“He can’t hide where we’ll not find him!” The doctor spoke with low but terrible energy.
“Not that I care—myself,” said the major difficultly. “But I reckon he’d better be settled with, or he’ll—be killing some one worth while one of these days.”
A big tear suddenly loosed itself from the doctor’s eyelid and rolled down his cheek, and he turned hastily away.
“There’s no call to feel bad,” said the major gruffly. “I’ve sort of been a thorn-in-the-flesh to you, Southall. We always rowed, somehow, and yet—”
The doctor choked and cleared his throat.
“I reckon,” the major murmured with a faint smile, “you won’t get quite so much fun out of Chalmers—and the rest. They never did rise to you like I did.”