“Yes—my name’s O’Mahony. I come from Michigan.”
At sound of this Milesian cognomen, the glance of the stipendiary grew keener still, if possible, and the corners of his carefully trimmed little mustache were drawn sharply down. There was less politeness in the manner and tone of his next inquiry.
“Well—what is your business? What do you want to say about them?”
“First of all,” said Bernard, “let’s be sure we’re talking about the same people. You’ve got two men under arrest here—Jerry Higgins of this place, and a cousin of his from—from Boston, I think it is.”
The major nodded, and kept his sharp gaze on the other’s countenance unabated.
“What of that?” he asked, now almost brusquety.
“Well, I only drove in this morning—I’m in the mining business, myself—but I understand they’ve been arrested for the m—— that is, on account of the disappearance of old Mr. O’Daly.”
The resident magistrate did not assent by so much as a word. “Well? What’s that to you?” he queried, coldly.
“It’s this much to me,” Bernard retorted, not with entire good-temper, “that O’Daly isn’t dead at all.”
Major Snaffle’s eyebrows went up still further, with a little jerk. He hesitated for a moment, then said: “I hope you know the importance of what you are saying. We don’y like to be fooled with.”