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The mystery of the man whose path had crossed hers so terribly seemed to augment instead of lessen as the time went on. What was the power in him that compelled the devotion of his wild followers and the little French ex-cavalryman? She knit her forehead in perplexity and was still puzzling over it when he came back.
Slavin did not answer, but he wet his lips with his tongue, his eyes on the window. "Who is this fellow Murphy?" "He was corporal in that same troop, sir." The ex-cavalryman dropped insensibly into his old form of speech. "He knew you too, and we talked it over, and decided to keep still, because it was none of our affair anyhow." "Where is he now?"
There was an unpleasant curl of the lip as he spoke the words almost vindictively, as though with intent to put Kelson in the wrong. But his sneer had no effect on the ex-Cavalryman. "I am driving over in my own trap," he replied coolly, ignoring the other's intent. "You will be a good deal more comfortable in a closed carriage." "Decidedly," Henshaw returned with a laugh.
In the ensuing competition it became very evident to the not altogether impartially disposed judges that they could not, without incurring the suspicions alike of friend and foe, award the premium to their fellow-townsman. Straight as a shingle though he might be, more prepossessing to the eye, the ex-cavalryman of fifty battles was far better trained in all the arts of horsemanship.
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