The speaker was a man of about fifty, with a neatly trimmed beard. Hair, beard and moustache were black, well powdered with grey. Once lean and hardy, he was just beginning to incline towards the soft fullness of inactivity and advancing years. His voice was ordinarily pleasant and he spoke slowly and impressively, but in addressing the crowd his delivery was hard and rapid, giving him an air of alacrity which went down well with a western audience. He was well dressed in the style common to the country, with a low white collar and a bow tie. In his hand, as he spoke, he waved a broad-brimmed felt sombrero and a much-chewed cigar, to lend force to what he said.
The Lieutenant-Governor spoke to Hector suddenly.
"A good speaker, Molyneux. Do you know him?"
"No, sir, I do not. Do you?"
"Only officially. A shrewd man."
Molyneux finished his speech and took a seat amid a patter of applause. Inspector MacFarlane—a heavier, more stolid MacFarlane than the Sergeant MacFarlane of twelve good years before—was on Hector's right. MacFarlane had been stationed in the Broncho district a long time. He should know Molyneux. Hector began to question him in an undertone.
Molyneux, it appeared, was one of those human sky-rockets common to new communities. Rising from unknown depths with the starting of a Broncho livery stable three or four years before, he had climbed rapidly into the western firmament to blaze suddenly forth as a prominent citizen and a candidate for the House at Ottawa. No one knew much about his past and very few cared. In a young country, where the oldest old-timer can count the years of his citizenship on two or three hands, where the scanty population is largely nomadic and where the vast majority concentrate exclusively on making use of their opportunities, a man's credentials are seldom demanded and those he offers are accepted as genuine. Mr. Molyneux, coming from nowhere, had simply set up business. Cash rolling in had given him good standing. Popularity and more cash had given him his nomination. Then came the election—and there you were!
"Doesn't he remind you of anyone?"
"No, sir," said MacFarlane, surprised. "Why?"
But Hector did not answer. He was busily delving into the pigeon-holes of that tenacious memory.