There was no answering greeting. The faces before him were as grim as stone. For Watusk they had a kind of good-humored contempt—for him a cold and deadly scorn.
Evidently their minds were made up in advance. The inspector twirled his mustache and regarded him with a hard, speculative eye.
Ambrose's heart failed him terribly. These were men that he admired. "What's the matter?" he cried. "Do you believe this liar? I have been a prisoner up to this moment—bound hand and foot and gagged. The marks are still on my wrists!"
Inspector Egerton did not look at his wrists. "H-m! Not bad!" he said grimly. "You're a cool hand, my man!"
The blood rushed to Ambrose's face. "For God's sake, will you tell me what I could hope to gain by stirring up the Indians?" he demanded.
"Don't ask me," said the inspector. "You were ready to grasp at any straw, I expect."
In the face of injustice so determined, it was only humiliating for Ambrose to attempt to defend himself. His face hardened. He set his jaw and shrugged callously.
"You're under arrest," said the inspector.
"On what charge?" Ambrose sullenly demanded.
"A mere trifle," said the inspector ironically. "Unlawful entry, conspiracy, burglary, and assault with intent to kill. To which we shall probably add treason."