“Like hell!” cried the bandmaster, indignantly, breaking in on the tune with his baton. “I know my business! Now, then, men,” he commanded, “'I'll Leave My Happy Home for You.'”
As Mrs. Bolland dragged Miss Cahill into view of the assembled troopers Ranson pulled his father-in-law into a far corner of the room. He shook the written confession in his face.
“Now, will you kindly tell me what that means?” he demanded. “What sort of a gallery play were you trying to make?”
Cahill shifted his sombrero guiltily. “I was trying to get you out of the hole,” he stammered. “I—I thought you done it.”
“You thought I done it!”
“Sure. I never thought nothing else.”
“Then why do you say here that YOU did it?”
“Oh, because,” stammered Cahill, miserably, “'cause of Mary, 'cause she wanted to marry you—'cause you were going to marry her.”
“Well—but—what good were you going to do by shooting yourself?”
“Oh, then?” Cahill jerked back his head as though casting out an unpleasant memory. “I thought you'd caught me, you, too—between you!”