“Well, if I thought it necessary to lie to you awhile ago, I’m not going to tell the truth now.”
“All right. Why bring the matter up?”
“I just wanted to warn you not to jump to conclusions.”
The trooper was dead tired, and dead sick of gazing at the smooth, evil face of his companion. “Oh, go to hell!” he said. “You talk too much!”
Imbrie subsided into a sullen silence.
Stonor thought: “For some reason he’s afraid of meeting Clare. I suppose that’s natural enough when he’s like this. He must know what’s the matter with him. Probably he hates everything connected with his better side. Well, if he doesn’t want Clare it may simplify matters.” Thus he was still making his theory work.
At last they came out from among the trees, and the little grassy valley of the Meander lay below them. There were the three little tents pitched on the other side of the stream, and the four horses quietly grazing in the bottom. Mary was baking bread at the fire. It was a picture of peace, and Stonor’s first anxiety for their safety was relieved.
He had not the heart to hail them; they would see soon enough. And almost immediately Mary did look up and see the two horsemen. She spoke over her shoulder, and Clare quickly appeared from her tent. The two women awaited them motionless.
Imbrie still rode ahead, hunched in his saddle. He glanced over his shoulder, and Stonor saw that a sickly yellow tint had crept under his skin. He looked at Stonor’s failing horse. Suddenly he clapped heels to his own beast, and, jerking the animal’s head round, circled Stonor and attempted to regain the trail behind him. He evidently counted on the fact that the policeman would be unable to follow.
To urge his spent beast to a run would only have been to provoke a fall. Stonor made no attempt to follow. Pulling his horse round, he whipped up his gun and fired into the air. It was sufficient. Imbrie pulled up. Stonor possessed himself of the other’s bridle-rein and turned him round again. They said nothing to each other.