"You've been making yourself quite a stranger, sergeant," he said, his tone pleasant enough. "It's the very devil what a havoc woman can make of man-to-man friendships up here in the Frozen North. Is it possible you've come to whimper at my success with Moira—Miss O'Malley, the finest woman——"
"Not to whimper, Karmack," Seymour cut in.
"Best take your medicine, sergeant. As a mere Arctic cop, on next to nothing a year, you never had a chance to be anything more to her than an entertaining decoration. From now on, you won't even decorate."
Under this insult-to-injury, Seymour held himself with his stoutest grip.
"I came," he declared with an ominous outward calm, "to learn just what you said to Miss O'Malley when you broke our pact of silence about Oliver's murder."
"Oh, I said just that—told her as gently as possible certain facts. It was high time she knew. Did you expect me to ask your august permission after what has happened?"
The factor put away the pelts he had been examining on Seymour's entry and, with casual manner, came from behind the counter. On the open floor of the store the rivals faced each other.
"You told her more than the facts in this case, Karmack," the sergeant said, his words dragging with earnest emphasis. "I'm here to know what you said and know I will—even if—I am compelled to bash you up."
Karmack laughed harshly, perhaps to show a confidence which he just may have felt, knowing how long-suffering the Mounties are by hard training and practice.
"Threatening violence, eh?" said the factor with a sneer. "Thinking of using your police power to repair your shattered romance? Dear eyes, what a blooming bone to pull!"