He was wondering now if all that had passed had been merely leading up to this issue. In plain words, was his big fight to be against—Welland? Had the events of fifteen years before, which had laid the foundations of a lifelong enmity, been as a prelude to a tremendous drama in which Welland—in the guise of the politician, Molyneux—and himself, as the champion of straight dealing—were to come together in terrific conflict?
"Who-o-a-hup, here!"
The trap, after speeding through the fierce sunshine down the long, unpaved streets between the wooden shacks, past the bleached hotel, the banks, the red saloons, had pulled up before a pretentious building sheathed in imitation stone—weakness dressed up as strength, falsehood as truth. The nicely polished window bore the legend:
STEVEN MOLYNEUX
FLOUR AND FEED CATTLE DEALER
MORTGAGES MONEY TO LOAN
A moment later the M.P. and the Mounted Police officer—craft and honesty—politics and patriotism—sat face to face.
The interview was apparently amiable. Hector kept himself keyed up to the pitch of vigilance, studied the politician's face closely and tried to trap him into betrayal.
Molyneux, without gushing, was cordial. He offered Hector a cigar. As they lighted up, Hector opened the ball. "Having just assumed command of the district, Mr. Molyneux, I called to pay my respects to the local M.P. There was no chance for us to chat yesterday."
His smile was disarming.
"Quite so, Major. Glad to see you. Beautiful day, isn't it? How long have you been here?"
"Only since the day before yesterday."