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It is a pleasant remembrance, after many years, to see again a group of lads round the big fire in the winter time, and to hear Duncan Robertson read the stirring ballad, "How Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old," till Peter can contain himself no longer, and proposes that a select band shall go instantly to McIntyre's Academy and simply compel a conflict.
"My instinct tells me that Jimmie Turnbull never forged that letter or stole McIntyre's securities, but I admit that everything points to his guilt, even his death." "How so?" "Because the theft of the securities supplies a motive for his suicide fear of exposure and imprisonment," argued Kent. "But there is no motive, so far as I can see, for Jimmie's murder.
After the foraging party reached McIntyre's, they left a part of their men and wagons to lay in supplies, while the other part passed on under Doyle with the expectation of proceeding two or three miles further. For this reason, Doyle was not numbered with the slain in place of his second in command.
Everyone also knew that McIntyre's whole concern belonged to himself, and that he collected the fees in every class on Friday morning, that he took home what was over after paying his assistants, and that butcher meat for the McIntyre family next week depended on the result.
Every eye watched him admiringly as he moved about, here and there, during those two weeks. Folks said you could hardly tell whether he thought most of Arabella or the doctor or old John McIntyre. Certainly he spent much of his time with the dark watchman, and it was beautiful to see the light his presence brought to John McIntyre's deep eyes. But he did not by any means neglect Arabella.
Never had he felt so inadequate, and it was with the greatest relief that he heard hoof-beats a few hundred yards away. But at his words the grief in McIntyre's eyes had changed to fury. "You and your dirty gang of crooks!" be cried. "Not one of you has got an honest love for anything on God's earth! You're a herd of money-swine!" Samuel rose and McIntyre took a step toward him.
He was overcome by a feeling of utter impotence. Hitherto, his strength had lain in his relentless hatred; and now, what had become of it? It was gone transformed into another feeling infinitely more potent. Something of the all-conquering force of love the impossibility of escape from it was borne in upon John McIntyre's soul.
Turnbull enter Colonel McIntyre's library on Monday night disguised as a burglar?" he asked. Grimes, by a twist of his head, managed to regard the detective out of the corner of his eye. "Aye, why did he?" he repeated. "That's what I went to the library last night to find out." "Did you discover anything?"
"Good morning, Colonel," he said civilly. "Mr. Kent is not here. Do you wish to leave any message?" "Oh, good morning, Sylvester," McIntyre's manner was brusque. "When do you expect Mr. Kent?" "In about twenty minutes, Colonel." Sylvester glanced at the wall clock. "Won't you sit down?" McIntyre took the chair and planted it by the window.
His archers compass me round about. He cleaveth my reins asunder, and doth not spare." The anguish in the reader's voice, conveying the strength of the man's mighty grief, made itself felt in the child's soul, and stilled him. He gazed up into John McIntyre's haggard face with a strange heaviness at his heart.
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