The view from the bridge diverted Miriam’s thoughts, and she studied the panorama spread before her with interest. Perched high on a hill close at hand was a colonial mansion, its white pillars and gabled roof a fair landmark to be seen for miles, while toward the valley nearer the river, and obviously on the same estate, was a low building, the architecture of which suggested a church or chapel.
Miriam was still speculating on her surroundings when she caught sight of a solitary horseman riding across the fields to her right. The man rode with the unmistakable seat of an American cavalryman, and horse and rider seemed one as they cleared the low fences and swung at last into the highway, headed for the bridge. As he crossed the bridge, Guy Trenholm checked his horse with such suddenness that a shower of mud bespattered Miriam, and his first words, instead of greeting, were an apology.
“Have I ruined your coat?” he asked, in deep contrition, as he sprang to the ground.
“A whisk-broom will remove the damage,” Miriam replied lightly. “No, please don’t try to rub it off!” as Trenholm drew out his handkerchief. “It must dry first. Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“Not going—returning,” he answered. “This is my bailiwick, that—” pointing in the direction from which he had come—“is Anne Arundel County, and my jurisdiction ends at the river’s bank.”
“And you dignify that stream with the title of river?”
“Don’t be so scornful,” he protested. “To-day it is a stream, but in the War of 1812 the British men-o’-war sailed up it to this point, burned down the original colonial homestead yonder,” indicating the mansion Miriam had been admiring, “and sailed away again.”
Miriam was paying scant attention to his historical facts, instead she was considering his previous statement.
“So your jurisdiction ends at the river,” she repeated. “And a criminal has simply to run across the bridge to elude you.”
“If he is a fast runner,” dryly. Trenholm stroked his horse’s soft nostril, as the chestnut mare rubbed her head against his arm and nosed in his pocket for the apple and sugar she so dearly loved and always found. “Also, there’s a sheriff in Anne Arundel County. Are you returning to Abbott’s Lodge, or,” his eyes twinkled, “thinking of a sprint across Hills Bridge?”