“I shouted at him as I ran down the shore, and I saw him throw my baby bodily into the canoe with my wife, who had fainted from her struggle. And then he shoved off from the shore, just as I reached there, but not soon enough to escape.”
The Saint drew his hand across his eyes, as though striving to shut out that sight.
“We fought,” he continued slowly, “fought like beasts, and I whipped him, but just before he went down under a powerful blow he managed to fall against the canoe and shove it into the current, where the water gains speed for the white rapids below.”
The Saint shook his head slowly.
“I never found them—never. I forgot the man who was responsible for my loss, and he escaped. I have sworn to kill him, my friend. The Indians found the overturned canoe—empty.”
“For God’s sake!” breathed Duke, as the Saint bowed his head over a loss sustained twenty years before. It seemed utterly impossible—yet true.
“What was your partner’s name?” asked Duke.
“Martin,” replied the Saint evenly, through clenched teeth.