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Flinging himself loosely in an easy chair, he threw a rapid glance at his watch, locked his fingers, and began with the nervous directness of one who wishes to be rid of formalities: "Well, Inspector, you returned this morning?" "An hour ago, sir." "A creditable bit of work, Inspector Frawley the department is pleased." "Thank you indeed, sir." "Does the case need you any more?"
I was desperate. It had to end one way or t'other. That's why I stuck to you until I thought it was over with you." "Why didn't you make sure of it?" said Frawley with curiosity; "you could have done for me there." Greenfield looked at him hard and nodded. "Keerect, Bub; quite so!" "Why didn't you?" "Why!" cried Greenfield angrily. "Ain't you ever had any imagination?
From time to time, by common consent, they sat down, gaunt, exhausted figures, eyeing each other with the instinct of beasts, their elbows on their bony knees. Whether from a fear of losing energy, whether under the spell of the frightful stillness, neither had uttered a word. Frawley was afire with thirst.
"If you please, sir," said Frawley, "I was just thinking after all, it has been a bit of a while since I've been home indeed, I should like it very much if I could take a good English mutton-chop and a musty ale at old Nell's, sir. I can still get the two o'clock express." "Granted!" "If you'd prefer not, sir," said Frawley, surprised at the vexation in his answer.
An hour later, as he took his place at the table in the Criterion Gardens, a hand fell on his shoulder and some one at his back said: "Well, Bub!" He turned. A thin man of medium height, with blue eyes and yellow complexion, was laughing in expectation of his discomfiture. Frawley laid down the menu carefully, raised his head, and answered quietly: "Why, how d'ye do, Bucky?"
Inspector Frawley, of the Canadian Secret Service, stood at attention, waiting until the scratch of a pen should cease throughout the dim, spacious office and the Honorable Secretary of Justice should acquaint him with his desires. He held himself deferentially, body compact, eyes clear and steady, face blank and controlled, without distinction, without significance, a man mediocre as a crowd.
Greenfield had indeed been stricken, but, escaping with his life, had left for the northern part of Brazil. The delay resulted in a gain of three months for Frawley, but without heat or excitement he began anew the pursuit, passing up the coast to Para and the mouth of the Amazon, by Bogota and Panama into Mexico, on up toward the border of Texas.
Above them a lazy buzzard, wheeling in languid circles, followed with patient conviction. On the fourth morning Frawley's horse stopped, shuddered, and went down in a heap. Greenfield halted and surveyed his discomfiture grimly, without a sign of elation. "That's bad, very bad," Frawley said judicially. "I ought to have sent word to the department.
Bixby, the man who had one day called on her at Wistaria Porch. "Well, Miss Thorpe," he said, briskly, "I suppose you heard the news. Miss Frawley has broken her ankle " "Yes, I heard that," said Azalea, with a sympathetic look. "And we think we want to put you in her place, at least, for a trial." "I'm glad to try," Azalea said, earnestly. "I'll do my best to make good.
The report finished, the Secretary let it drop into his lap and waited, impressed, despite himself, at the thought of the immense galleries of crime through which the Inspector was seeking his victim. All at once into the unseeing stare there flickered a light of understanding. Frawley returned to the room, saw the Secretary, and nodded. "It's Bucky," he said tentatively.
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