“Old fellow with white hair and whiskers—swore like a pirate—had the sheriff along with him.”
It came to Keith in a flash—it was Waite. Perhaps Christie knew. Perhaps the General knew. Certainly something of importance was crystallizing in the actress' room which might help to explain all else. He rushed up the stairs, barely waiting to rap once at the closed door before he pressed it open. The sight within held him silent, waiting opportunity to blurt out his news. Here, also, was tragedy, intense, compelling, which for the instant seemed to even overshadow the fate of the girl he loved. There were three men present, and the woman. She stood clutching the back of a chair, white-faced and open-eyed, with Fairbain slightly behind her, one hand grasping her arm, the other clinched, his jaw set pugnaciously. Facing these two was Waite, and a heavily built man wearing a brown beard, closely trimmed.
“You'd better acknowledge it,” Waite snapped out, with a quick glance at the newcomer. “It will make it all the easier for you. I tell you this is the sheriff, and we've got you both dead to rights.”
“But,” she urged, “why should I be arrested? I have done nothing.”
“You're an adventuress—a damn adventuress—Hawley's mistress, probably—a—”
“Now, see here, Waite,” and Fairbain swung himself forward, “you drop that. Miss Maclaire is my friend, and if you say another word I'll smash you, sheriff or no sheriff.”
Waite glared at him.
“You old fool,” he snorted, “what have you got to do with this?”
“I've got this to do with it, you'll find—the woman is to be treated with respect or I'll blow your damned obstinate head off.”
The sheriff laid his hand on Waite's shoulder.