Strip off fifteen years—so his thoughts ran—from the body, with the fat that goes with it; take away the grey and the dye—it's probably dye—from the hair and most of the wrinkles from the face; shave off the beard; put him in riding rig, on a spirited horse; and——
Vague trouble stirred in his mind as he looked at the politician—almost a sense of coming conflict.
He remembered the keen-faced, lean, sinewy, tawny-headed man with the smooth ways and false professions of friendship, with whom he had waged war many years before; remembered how that man had sought his life, sent Chester to his death and Wild Horse to the gallows; remembered, above all, without fear—though perhaps this memory was mainly responsible for his vague foreboding—the note left behind by that man when he drove him out of Canada:
'You have won this time. But I will win yet. I owe you my ruin and, if it takes me twenty years, I'll get even. Remember, I'll get even, if it takes me twenty years.'
The voice—somewhat disguised—the eyes—which could not be disguised—and a dozen smaller things; these told him, against every point of reason, against all his better judgment, that—the Mr. Steven Molyneux of today was the Mr. Joseph Welland of long ago!
As the crowd left the field after the National Anthem, Mrs. Jackson introduced Hector to Mrs. MacFarlane.
II
On the morning following the sports Corporal Donaldson, the Superintendent's teamster, came 'round to Hector's quarters in the Police barracks at Broncho with his smart turnout, a shining two-seated trap drawn by two magnificent roans.
"Drive to Mr. Molyneux's office," Hector ordered.
"Yes, sir," said Donaldson. "Giddap there, John A.! Hup there, Laurier!"