“And who are you, my young cock-of-the-walk?” snarled Ruthven.
“Denzil Carew,” I replied, on the spur of the moment, “formerly of Fort Royal.”
By the sudden pallor of the man’s face I knew that the shot had struck home—that he knew all about the burning of the fort, and his companions looked no less disconcerted and alarmed. He changed the subject instantly.
“Lieutenant Boyd, I command you to leave,” he said hoarsely. “You forget there is such a thing as law in the Canadas.”
“It is you who forget that, sir,” retorted the lieutenant, “as you will learn to your cost before many days. But to business! Produce the prisoner.”
“I admit that I have one,” said Ruthven, “but my claim to him overrides yours. He is a murderer; he has killed a Northwest Company man in cold blood.”
“Who?”
“Cuthbert Mackenzie!”
I could scarcely believe that I had heard aright. I exchanged significant and wondering glances with my companion. Could it be possible that Cuthbert Mackenzie had paid the last penalty for his crimes?
“It’s a good job, if it’s true!” muttered Carteret.