The train, which had been exhibiting signs of indecision, suddenly quickened its pace and shot past, to the discomfiture of the desperadoes, who childishly fired a volley at the wheels. Next moment an armed band, headed by the Sheriff and Miss Maimie Matterson,—they must have covered forty miles in something like fifteen seconds,—dashed out of an adjacent wood. After a perfunctory struggle the incompetent criminals were duly taken into custody and marched off by their captors. The Sheriff, having got rid of his posse, seized the opportunity to indulge in an exchange of tender endearments with Miss Matterson.
"We will find the preacher-man, right now!"
he declared.
Miss Matterson's reply was not recorded in print, but to judge from the last few yards of the film, it was of an encouraging nature.
As the Sheriff's arms closed round the unresisting form of his athletic bride, Philip was conscious of a gentle movement beside him. Then a small, warm, gloved hand was slipped into his own in the darkness. He made no sign: he merely allowed the hand to rest where it lay. Presently it was withdrawn as softly as it came. It was a brief, almost momentary episode, but it settled the course of Philip's life for him.
The lights went up; a blurred and bearded figure was thrown upon the screen; and the band, rising to its feet, offered a hurried tribute of loyalty.
"Supper?" suggested Mr. Mablethorpe to the company in general.
"You must all be my guests to-night," said Philip. "I may not have another opportunity."
At supper he told them that he was going to America for a year at least.
"I presume," said Mr. Mablethorpe, as they sat alone together after Sylvia and her mother had gone to bed, "that when you do return from your travels we must not expect to see—quite so much of you as hitherto?"