In his own mind, he was almost certain that he had.
Much depended on the question. The memory of the ruin Hector had brought upon his former plans just when they were at the point of fulfilment was still bright within him. The pangs and disappointments of his struggle to advance under a new name in a new country, in constant fear of being detected and denounced, still made themselves felt. Venturing back to Western Canada when he thought it safe, in order to avail himself of the country's greater opportunities for acquiring power and wealth and to work up at the same time to a position whence he might easily crush Hector, as he had sworn, he had endured a further struggle of three years' duration, a struggle which, but for Hector, had been unnecessary; and this struggle was too recent to be forgotten. If Hector had actually seen through his disguise—a disguise so perfect that it had completely deceived all others—even the old-timers who had known Joe Welland—then, not only his own future was at stake, but the retribution he had promised himself would be denied him. Hector would unmask him, have him brought to trial, utterly break him and, in so doing, save himself. Had he held his hand so long, awaiting his chance to make Hector's fall the more terrible, only to be caught in his own trap?
Altogether, Mr. Welland alias Molyneux was in a very pretty panic. He meant to smash Hector, anyway. It now behooved him to act quickly. As long as there was the least likelihood that Hector had discovered him, he could not rest. He decided to put the wheels instantly into motion.
III
I am the voice of War and Fame,
Of Truth and Might and Chivalry.
I am the soul, I am the flame
Of all that heroes love to see.
I hailed the day when Rome was born,
I watched the ancient Peoples rise,
I sang a song of laughing scorn
When Dissolution closed their eyes.
Supreme were they one little day
And then—their glory passed away!
Their lips are dumb, their suns are set—
My voice, my voice is ringing yet!
In every age, in every land,
When fierce and fell the battle grew,
I bade the hard-pressed army stand,
I steeled the yielding line anew!
I charged the breach, I drew the sword,
And, when the fateful hour was come,
Above the storm I spoke the word
That hurled the howling squadrons home!
In red retreat, in dread defeat,
When Life is Death, when Death is sweet,
When Valour reaps its golden yield,
My voice, my voice controls the field!
I am the voice, the brazen voice,
The ardent voice of States and Kings.
Let fools and dreamers cast their choice
With milder music, softer things—
The mistress, I, that heroes love,
I sing the songs they leap to hear.
A guardian spirit, poised above,
I serve the Soldier. Year by year,
By day, by night, 'tis my delight
To guide his eager steps aright.
He lives—or dies—howe'er I will.
My voice, my voice directs him still!
And when he sleeps at last
Under the stainless Flag his hand defended
On Death's dark camping-ground—
The battle past,
The long march ended—
Mourning his loss with dirging fifes and drums,
His comrades fire the harmless round
And silence follows—Then my moment comes
And, note by note, with music sadly splendid,
The last to speak, my grief to tell,
My voice the final tribute pays,
Shatters the hush—and says
"Farewell! ... Farewell!"
'The Song of the Trumpet,' recited with immense fervour by the author to the accompaniment of a 'flourish off' between verses, though of the type at which soldiers are apt to sneer, began with the audience's sympathy and ended in tumultuous applause. Mrs. MacFarlane, in the front row—she was always in the front row—turned rapturously to Inspector Cranbrook, her nearest companion, who, in his whimsical way, was entertaining her.
"Wasn't that just—delightful?" she cooed, flashing him a dazzling glance. "Now—who was that? Isn't he handsome? My! I never can understand how you get men like that in the ranks of the Police. Most policemen are so common."