Hines nodded. He had all the Canadian's traditional hate of the remittance-man; Molyneux, in especial, he detested, because, perhaps by his superior shrewdness, he gave less cause for contempt than the race in general. That he had paused to speak was proof sufficient that he had unpleasant news. He would, however, take his own time in delivering it—prolong the torture to the limit.
"Midsummer holidays," he laconically answered.
Molyneux ignored his curtness. "Miss Morrill at Glaves's place, do you know?"
Jed's grin widened. "You hain't heard, then?"
"Heard what?"
Jed gazed off and away over the prairies. "No, you won't find her at Glaves's."
How Molyneux longed to spoil the grin. But a deadly anxiety constrained him. "Where is she, then?"
"Nowheres around here."
"Do you know?"
"You bet!" The grin gave place to malignant satisfaction. "Yes, I know—that is, I kin guess, though I wouldn't if I thought it would do you any good. As it won't—Let me see—she was married a week ago by the Roman priest. Jedging by averages, I reckon as you orter find her in Carter's arms."