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Updated: May 24, 2025
"There should be an idyl or a legend belonging to it," a pretty, dark-eyed girl with a Boston accent said to Kirkwood, one moonlight evening late in summer when the river was low, as they drifted softly down between its dim shores. "Poor little Bear River! did nothing human ever happen near you to give you a right to a prettier name?"
The two of them were mutual, if antagonistic, trespassers; neither would dare bring about the arrest of the other. And then and this was not the least consideration to influence Kirkwood perhaps the fellow would die if he got no attention. Kirkwood shut his teeth grimly. "I'm no assassin," he informed himself, "to strike and run.
"Dull Care!" murmured Kirkwood, bewildered and dismayed; for the visitation had come upon him with little presage and no invitation whatever. "Dull Care," the Shade assured him.
The anchor-watch was not in sight; he may have been keeping well forward by Stryker's instructions, or he may have crept off for forty winks. Whatever the reason for his absence from the post of duty, Kirkwood was relieved not to have him to deal with; and drawing himself gently in over the rail, made the painter fast, and stepped noiselessly over toward the lighted oblong of the companionway.
"I should like that," assented the girl decidedly. Kirkwood nodded his approval, opened the door and jumped out to assist her; then picked up the bag and followed the pair, Brentwick leading the way with Dorothy on his arm. At the doorway of the Crown and Mitre, Charles met them evidently seriously disturbed.
He flung out a hand with the plausible design of grasping Kirkwood by the collar. The latter lifted his stick, deflecting the arm, and incontinently landed his other fist forcibly on the fellow's chest. The man reeled back, cursing. Before he could recover Kirkwood calmly crossed the threshold, closed the door and put his shoulder to it.
"Beg pardon, ma'am, but I was told Colonel George Burgoyne, of Cornwall " "Colonel Burgoyne died some time ago. My son is his heir. This is my son. He came to the house this evening to get some property he desired, and it seems tripped on the stairs and fell unconscious. I became worried about him and drove over, accompanied by my friend, Mr. Kirkwood."
Seemingly it was a chance meeting, but she put a question at once almost as though she had been waiting for him. 'Have you seen Pennyloaf lately, Mr. Kirkwood? Pennyloaf? The name suggested Bob Hewett, who again suggested John Hewett, and so Sidney fell upon thoughts of some one who two days ago had found a refuge in John's home.
Kirkwood had never in his weirdest dreams thought of himself as an eavesdropper; he did not think of himself as such in the present instance; he merely listened, edging nearer the skylight, of which the wings were slightly raised, and keeping as far as possible in shadow. "Ow, I sye!" the captain was remonstrating, aggrieved. "'Ow was I to know 'e didn't 'ave it in for you?
"Calendar," he began, "if a single shot is fired about this vessel the river police will be buzzing round your ears in a brace of shakes." The fat adventurer nodded assent, his eyes contracting. "Very well!" continued Kirkwood brusquely. "You must know that I have personally nothing to fear from the police; if arrested, I wouldn't be detained a day.
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