Inspector Fyles stood confronting the astounded man. Beside him stood another man in uniform, with three gold stripes on his arm. It was Sergeant McBain.
In spite of his recognition of the Inspector, Bill’s anger rose swiftly, and his great muscles were set tingling at the man’s words and tone.
“’Struth!” he cried in exasperation. “This is a free country, isn’t it? If I need to shout it’s none of your damn business. What in the name of all that’s holy has it got to do with you? I saw my brother ahead, and was hailing him. Well?”
Bill’s eyes were fiercely alight. He and Fyles stood eye to eye for a moment. Then the latter’s resentment seemed to suddenly die out.
“Say, I’m sorry, Mr. Bryant,” he apologized. “I just didn’t recognize you in the darkness. Guess I thought you were some tough from the saloon. That was your brother—ahead?”
Fyles’s calm, clean-cut features were in strong contrast to his subordinate’s. He was smiling slightly, too. Sergeant McBain was wholly grim.
Bill glanced from one to the other.
“Of course it was my brother,” he said, promptly, mollified by the officer’s expression of regret. “I’ve been chasing him half the night. You see, O’Brien told me he was up this way, and when I sighted him yonder by the pine, I——”
He broke off. He had suddenly remembered O’Brien’s warning. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he had opened his mouth very wide. Far wider than Providence had made necessary.
“You——?”