Cold-bloodedly, boldly, and with clear-cut reasoning, all this ran through his mind as he stood looking at Alice Westmore.
We are strangely made—the best of us. Men have looked on the Madonna and wondered why the artist had not put more humanity there—had not given her a sensual lip, perhaps. And on the Cross, the Christ was thinking of a thief.
Two hours later he was bidding her good-bye.
“Next Sunday, do you remember—Alice—next Sunday night you are to tell me—to fix the day, Sweet?”
“Did mother tell you that?” she asked. “She should let me speak for myself.”
But somehow he felt that she would. Indeed he knew it as he kissed her hand and bade her good-night.
Richard Travis had ridden over to Westmoreland that Sunday night, and as he rode back, some two miles away, and within the shadows of a dense clump of oaks which bordered the road, he was stopped by two dusky figures. They stood just on the edge of the forest and came out so suddenly that the spirited saddle mare stopped and attempted to wheel and bolt. But Travis, controlling her with one hand and, suspecting robbers, had drawn his revolver with the other, when one of them said:
“Friends, don't shoot.”
“Give the countersign,” said Travis with ill-concealed irritation.
“Union League, sir. I am Silos, sir.”