"Almost too much sentiment in Mira Stanton for you," chuckled the
Inspector. "When I think of how near a thing it was—"
"I was a fool, sir." Mahon's face was red. "But it wasn't because I was too good for her. We'd never have pulled together; I know that now. She was born and bred in the wild ways. I respect her as much as I ever did—perhaps more because she has steadfastly refused even to let us know where she is—we who sent her down and indirectly killed the man she loved."
"I suppose you've talked all this over with your wife, young man?"
"Yes, sir. Helen, though reared in such a different atmosphere from her cousin, understands Mira better than I. She sympathises—"
"But where is she—Mira, I mean? We know she's drawing the profits regularly from the 3-bar-Y. But that foreman of hers is as mute as a clam. . . . And now Bert, her best cowboy, has disappeared. Hm-m! What d'ye make of it, Mahon?"
It was not like the Inspector to draw the opinions of his staff, and
Mahon regarded him slyly.
"You have a theory, sir. I haven't. I only see what's clear. Mira's over in Montana—"
"And so you think Mira Stanton is living on her past in Montana—gamboling about with Whiskers, I suppose? And Blue Pete lies in the Hills? Comfortable disposal of the whole affair. I envy you."
"I've searched the Hills in all his old haunts, sir—"
"And I'm dam glad you didn't find him."