But a theory may work too perfectly to fit the haphazard facts of life. There was still the dead man to be explained. And a theory, however perfect, did not bring him any nearer to solving the personal problems concerned. What was one to do with a man who was at once sane and irresponsible? He could give up Clare like a man, he told himself, if it were necessary to her happiness; but to give her up to this——! He jumped up and shook himself with the gesture that was becoming habitual. He could not allow himself to dwell on that subject; frenzy lay that way.
CHAPTER XIII THE RESCUE
They had struck off from the main trail between the two Indian villages, and were within a mile or two of Stonor’s camp. Their pace was slow, for the going was bad, and Stonor’s horse was utterly jaded. The trooper’s face was set in grim lines. He was thinking of the scene that waited ahead.
Imbrie, too, had the grace to look anxious and downcast. He had been exasperatingly chipper all the way, until it had occurred to him just now to ask Stonor what he had done with the women. Upon learning that they were waiting just ahead, his feathers drooped. A whine crept into his voice, and, without saying anything definite, he began to hedge in an odd way.
“The truth about this case hasn’t come out yet,” he said.
“I never thought it had,” said Stonor.
“Well, a man under arrest has the right to lie to protect his interests, at least until he has the opportunity to consult a lawyer.”
“Sure, and an officer has the right to draw his own inferences from the lies.”
“Hell! I don’t care what you think. As you said, you’re not going to try me.”
“When did you lie to me?”