"There's room to turn here by backing. Hit the grit for the Lodge."
After he had faced about, Ned Kilmeny had one word to say before leaving.
"I know who you are, and there's just one name for your kind—you're an out and out rotter."
"It's a difference of opinion that makes horse races, captain," answered the masked man promptly.
Ned Kilmeny, as he drove back to the Lodge, was sick at heart. He came of a family of clean, honest gentlemen. Most of them had been soldiers. Occasionally one had gone to the devil as this young cousin of his had done. But there was something in this whole affair so contemptible that it hurt his pride. The theft itself was not the worst thing. The miner had traded on their faith in him. He had lied to them, had made a mock of their friendly offers to help him. Even the elements of decency seemed to be lacking in him.
India and Moya were on the veranda when the captain drove up. One glance at his grim face told them something had gone wrong.
"I've been held up," he said simply.
"Held up!"
"Robbed—with a rifle within reach of my hand all the time."
"But—how?" gasped India.