"Your strong box is quite safe now, Mr. Gaskell," he said in his slow, level voice as he drew out his pipe. "Those three chaps will be arrested inside another hour. As for Bulger, here, their accomplice, he is already my prisoner."
"But you must have discovered their plot!" cried Gaskell. "You must have known all along that the rascals would be lying in wait for the coach!"
"Why, cert'nly," smiled Silk. "That is why I—why Lucy and I are here, your fellow-passengers."
CHAPTER XI
MAPLE LEAF'S SCAR
"I say, Maple Leaf," Percy Rapson declared with boyish frankness, "you're lookin' awfully charmin' at this moment, standin' there peelin' those apples with the light of the settin' sun on you! I don't think you ever realise how good-lookin' you are. If I were an artist, I should want to paint a picture of you; only you should be dressed in fringed and beaded buckskins, and wear a feathered head-dress like a war-chief's daughter. Of course, I should never be able to do you justice, but your portrait would look rippin' fine on the top of a chocolate box."
The Indian girl's naturally ruddy cheeks took on a deeper tinge, which was not wholly due to the rosy glow from the western sky.
"Maple Leaf is glad that you are not an artist," she responded with dignity and a slightly contemptuous curl of her lip.