Superintendent Branch, his officers, and Sergeant-Major Ironside had been discussing the escape of James Pryse. Orderly-Room was over. Trooper McFardell was already in the charge of the guard, and about to begin his two months of hard labour. His case was already relegated to the orders of the day. And, in so far as he was concerned, the matter was dismissed from the minds of his superiors. They had no thought for the career which their discipline had devastated.
“You know, Sergeant-Major, it’s a far more serious matter than I can say,” Superintendent Branch declared at the conclusion of the discussion, with an emphasis which his associates recognised as his most profound danger-signal. “Were this man, Pryse, an ordinary criminal, it would leave me less disturbed. Through him the Police prestige has suffered a double blow. Think back. What is the position? A murder is committed—a clear, frank, deliberate shooting by a man who, maybe, felt justified. That’s all right. His brother, this Pryse, fresh from Alaska, is staying in his house in Greenwood. The murderer has no thought of a getaway. He knows our people are coming for him, and he reckons to stand his trial. We know all that. Meanwhile this wild man, James Pryse, gets at him. He plans his escape and prepares. When our men come along, the house is transformed into a veritable fortress, and we are forced to storm it. Well, eventually we get in, and what do we find? This man, James Pryse, simply laughing at us. Which means that the whole of the town of Greenwood was laughing with him. It was all a game. Our man had been got away before we came. And the whole pantomime of barricading the house was performed to give him added time, and delay our ultimate pursuit. That all came out at Pryse’s trial. That’s bad enough. But now this later escape of Pryse himself is ten times worse. We’ve lost so much ground I simply daren’t think of it. We shall have the Commissioner here to investigate our discipline and efficiency. And very rightly so. Things have got to be jerked up, and at once. I shall hold myself responsible that this is so. And I shall hold my officers no less responsible, and you, too, Sergeant-Major.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Sergeant-Major’s face reflected the storm which the other’s words had set boiling behind his hard grey eyes. His superiors all knew his swift methods of passing any reprimand he might receive on to the troops under him.
A grim light was shining in the eyes that regarded the rugged face of the harshest Sergeant-Major in the Police Force.
“Now, let there be no mistake, Sergeant-Major. No mistake whatever,” the man at the desk went on, in a carefully calculated tone. “The prisoner, Pryse, has to be recaptured. If there is any further failure, you will have to answer for it. Do you understand me? How many patrols have you got out?”
“Three, Sir.”
“Three? You will treble that number. You will treble it, if you have to return half the staff to duty. You must go through the territory within a hundred and fifty miles of this post with a fine comb, and any failure in efficiency in the work will be dealt with in the most rigorous fashion. See to it. These patrols must be on the trail by noon. That will do.”