|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 13
She left them, nodding slightly to Keith.
When she was gone, a puzzled look filled the Inspector's eyes. "She has
been like that for the last six months," he explained. "Tremendously
interested in this man Keith and his fate. I don't believe that I have
watched for your return more anxiously than she has, Conniston. And the
curious part of it is she seemed to have no interest in the matter at
all until six months ago. Sometimes I am afraid that brooding over her
father's death has unsettled her a little. A mighty pretty girl,
Conniston. A mighty pretty girl, indeed! And her brother is a skunk.
Pst! You haven't forgotten him?"
He drew a chair up close to his own and motioned Keith to be seated.
"You're changed, Conniston!"
The words came out of him like a shot. So unexpected were they that
Keith felt the effect of them in every nerve of his body. He sensed
instantly what McDowell meant. He was NOT like the Englishman; he
lacked his mannerisms, his cool and superior suavity, the inimitable
quality of his nerve and sportsmanship. Even as he met the disquieting
directness of the Inspector's eyes, he could see Conniston sitting in
his place, rolling his mustache between his forefinger and thumb, and
smiling as though he had gone into the north but yesterday and had
returned today. That was what McDowell was missing in him, the soul of
Conniston himself--Conniston, the ne plus ultra of presence and amiable
condescension, the man who could look the Inspector or the High
Commissioner himself between the eyes, and, serenely indifferent to
Service regulations, say, "Fine morning, old top!" Keith was not
without his own sense of humor. How the Englishman's ghost must be
raging if it was in the room at the present moment! He grinned and
shrugged his shoulders.
"Were you ever up there--through the Long Night--alone?" he asked.
"Ever been through six months of living torture with the stars leering
at you and the foxes barking at you all the time, fighting to keep
yourself from going mad? I went through that twice to get John Keith,
and I guess you're right. I'm changed. I don't think I'll ever be the
same again. Something--has gone. I can't tell what it is, but I feel
it. I guess only half of me pulled through. It killed John Keith.
Rotten, isn't it?"
He felt that he had made a lucky stroke. McDowell pulled out a drawer
from under the table and thrust a box of fat cigars under his nose.
"Light up, Derry--light up and tell us what happened. Bless my soul,
you're not half dead! A week in the old town will straighten you out."
He struck a match and held it to the tip of Keith's cigar.
For an hour thereafter Keith told the story of the man-hunt. It was his
Iliad. He could feel the presence of Conniston as words fell from his
lips; he forgot the presence of the stern-faced man who was watching
him and listening to him; he could see once more only the long months
and years of that epic drama of one against one, of pursuit and flight,
of hunger and cold, of the Long Nights filled with the desolation of
madness and despair. He triumphed over himself, and it was Conniston
who spoke from within him. It was the Englishman who told how terribly
John Keith had been punished, and when he came to the final days in the
lonely little cabin in the edge of the Barrens, Keith finished with a
choking in his throat, and the words, "And that was how John Keith
died--a gentleman and a MAN!"
He was thinking of the Englishman, of the calm and fearless smile in
his eyes as he died, of his last words, the last friendly grip of his
hand, and McDowell saw the thing as though he had faced it himself. He
brushed a hand over his face as if to wipe away a film. For some
moments after Keith had finished, he stood with his back to the man who
he thought was Conniston, and his mind was swiftly adding twos and twos
and fours and fours as he looked away into the green valley of the
Saskatchewan. He was the iron man when he turned to Keith again, the
law itself, merciless and potent, by some miracle turned into the form
of human flesh.
"After two and a half years of THAT even a murderer must have seemed
like a saint to you, Conniston. You have done your work splendidly. The
whole story shall go to the Department, and if it doesn't bring you a
commission, I'll resign. But we must continue to regret that John Keith
did not live to be hanged."
"He has paid the price," said Keith dully.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|