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Updated: May 8, 2025
Young Clancy's eyes were fixed upon it, and his revery was so deep that a book fell from his hand to the floor without his notice. His thoughts, however, were dwelling upon a young girl. Strange that a deadly weapon should be allied to her in association. Yet so it was.
Clancy's fingers drummed impatiently on the table at which the three were seated. Evidently he expected the chief to play Sir Oracle. But the head of the Bureau contented himself with the comment that he was still interested in Winifred Bartlett's history, and would be glad to have any definite particulars which Carshaw might gather.
As carefully as possible they crawled through the window, and while they stood in the dark room at the front of the house. Hiram came through the opening and joined them. A noise reached their ears, as of heavy breathing. Hill caught Clancy's arm in a convulsive clutch. "There's some one in the place, all right!" said Burton, under his breath. "Strike a light," suggested the motor wizard.
My sister has some reason I cannot fathom it. She wants them away from here, and Clancy's discharge came to-day. He must see him first," she said, indicating Mr. Hayne by the nod of her pretty head. "They say Clancy has run off and got away from his wife. He doesn't want to be discharged. They cannot find him now; but perhaps Mr. Hayne can. Mr. Hayne, try to. You you must."
Now say we three talk it over together and settle it out of court as it were. I've put in my time down here and I've got to have my pay, but perhaps it would be better all around if I took it from the young man rather than his father." This struck me as the best way out of the muddle, and a very fair proposition, considering Clancy's point of view.
The caller on a certain morning in April was not wholly actuated by sympathy, for she had news which she believed would be interesting if not altogether agreeable. Clancy's attentions had not been unknown, and he had at first suffered in the estimation of others as well as of Aun' Sheba, because of his apparent neglect.
Coming across? Quick now! I haven't got all night to spend here!" Smarlinghue's hands were trembling violently; he sat down in his chair in a pitiful, uncertain way. "Yes, yes!" he whispered. "Yes! I got to do it. I'll do it, Mr. Clancy, I'll do it! I'll I'll do anything!" A half leer, half scowl was on Clancy's face, as he stood regarding the other. "I thought you would!" he grunted roughly.
Divested of the legal encumbrances with which such documents are usually weighted, Clancy's story ran substantially as follows: "I was sergeant in K troop, and Gower was in F. We had been stationed together six months or so when ordered out on the Indian campaign that summer. I was dead-broke. All my money was gone, and my wife kept bothering me for more.
For an hour before their departure every tongue in garrison that wagged at all and few there were that wagged not was discoursing on the exciting events of the morning, Hayne's emancipation from the last vestige of suspicion, Clancy's capture, confession, and tragic death, Mrs. Clancy's flight and probable future.
"You'd make a bum detective. Imagine that poor girl crying her eyes out in a cold dark cell all because you were too squeamish to give her belongings the once over!" Carshaw was not misled by Clancy's manner. He knew that his friend was only consumed by impatience to be on the trail. "You've fired plenty of questions at me," he said quietly. "Now it's my turn.
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