"Well, Blythe—" with a nod towards the carefully folded paper, purchased ten minutes before, Hector pronounced the usual formula, "is there anything interesting in the Prophet tonight?"
But Blythe for once did not make the usual response: 'Nothin' to speak of, sir.' Instead, with considerable agitation, sternly suppressed, he answered, as he drew off Hector's coat:
"Bit on the front page, sir, about us. P'raps you've seen it?"
"No. Where is it?"
Blythe handed over the paper. Hector's face grew dark with the severity that could make a division tremble.
Splashed across the page was the heading: 'Do New Brooms Always Sweep Clean?'
And, beneath the heading, this paragraph:
'According to the old saw, "New Brooms Always Sweep Clean." We think this saying needs revision. We are led to think so by the strange slackening of the bonds of discipline which until lately held a certain instrument of the law quartered in Broncho in constant control. Last night, our pride in the organization to which we refer received a rude shock. Details are not necessary. The outrageous conduct of the member of this force, who reeled up and down Main St., using the most blasphemous language and shooting up the town, until gathered in by the patrol nearly an hour afterwards, is too fresh in our memories to require full description. This is only one of the many incidents which, since the change in command was made, we have shudderingly anticipated. We do not blame the men. We blame the leader.'
The paragraph, as Hector, of course, knew, dealt with the 'outrageous conduct' of the Marquis, who, on the previous night, had enjoyed, for the first time since his transference to Broncho, a spree in town and who was now in the cells, awaiting punishment. Equally, of course, the 'leader' referred to was himself.
Following his first interview with the M.P. for Broncho, Hector had set going a part of the complicated machinery which was at his disposal, as a Police officer, with the object of discovering Molyneux's true identity. These investigations had proven fruitless. It is not easy to trace a man's antecedents back through utter obscurity to a point fifteen years' distant; and Welland—if it was Welland—had covered his tracks too well. Hector had learned that no-one—not even Jim Jackson or MacFarlane—connected the successful politician of Broncho with the unsuccessful criminal Hector had driven from the country. Why should they? Without a scrap of real evidence, Hector had realized that he could do nothing to denounce his man. Yet he was absolutely certain that Molyneux was Welland. Since their first meeting, he had observed many things, small in themselves but great in the aggregate, which his tenacious memory recognized as traits of the one-time cattle-thief and whiskey-smuggler. But, failing definite evidence which would hold in a court of law, he knew that he must treat him, not for what he had been, but for what he was. He must deal with Molyneux, at least outwardly, as Molyneux, not as Welland. The fight—if fight it was to be—must of necessity be fought with the weapons, not of the past, but of the present.