“Except yourself, Sergeant, eh?” said the Superintendent, relaxing into a grim smile.
“Oh, well, of course, sir, I'm not going to deny it. But you see,” continued the Sergeant, his pride being touched, “he had known her down East—worked on her father's farm—young gentleman—fresh from college—culture, you know, manner—style and that sort of thing—rushed her clean off her feet.”
“I thought you said it was Cameron who was the one hard hit?”
“So it was, sir. Hadn't seen her for a couple of years or so. Left her a country lass, uncouth, ignorant—at least so they say.”
“Who say?”
“Well, her friends—Dr. Martin and the nurse at the hospital. But I can't believe them, simply impossible. That this girl two years ago should have been an ignorant, clumsy, uncouth country lass is impossible. However, Cameron came on her here, transfigured, glorified so to speak, consequently fell over neck in love, went quite batty in fact. A secret flame apparently smoldering all these months suddenly burst into a blaze—a blaze, by Jove!—regular conflagration. And no wonder, sir, when you look at her, her face, her form, her style—”
“Oh, come, Sergeant, we'll move on. Let's keep at the business in hand. The question is what's to do. That old snake Copperhead is three hundred miles from here on the Sun Dance, plotting hell for this country, and we want him. As you say, Cameron's our man. I wonder,” continued the Superintendent after a pause, “I wonder if we could get him.”
“I should say certainly not!” replied the Sergeant promptly. “He's only a few months married, sir.”
“He might,” mused the Superintendent, “if it were properly put to him. It would be a great thing for the Service. He's the man. By the Lord Harry, he's the only man! In short,” with a resounding whack upon his thigh, “he has got to come. The situation is too serious for trifling.”
“Trifling?” said the Sergeant to himself in undertone.