“Smith, the constable and I will look after—him—and the horse. Send a wagon to-morrow morning.”
Without further word the brother and sister mounted their horses.
“Good-by, old man. See you to-morrow,” said Cameron.
“Good-night,” said the doctor shortly.
The girl gave him her hand.
“Good-night,” she said simply, her eyes full of a dumb pain.
“Good-by, Miss Moira,” said the doctor, who held her hand for just a moment as if to speak again, then abruptly he turned his back on her without further word and so stood with never a glance more after her. It was for him a final farewell to hopes that had lived with him and had warmed his heart for the past three years. Now they were dead, dead as the dead man upon whose white still face he stood looking down.
“Thief, murderer, outlaw,” he muttered to himself. “Sure enough—sure enough. And yet you could not help it, nor could she.” But he was not thinking of the dead man's record in the books of the Mounted Police.