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Updated: May 26, 2025
Though a confession of guilt simplified everything, perhaps he frowned to find no embarrassment in his presence in the private; perhaps he apprehended impertinence in the soft blue eyes. "You know what that means the charges sustained?" "Yes, sir!" "And you have nothing to say?" Westerling's frown deepened. There was an undercurrent of urgency in his tone.
The tramp of their feet as they dispersed homeward mingled with the urging of officers to weary men and the rumbling of wagons and guns and the sound of pick and spade on the range, where torches flickered over the heads of the working parties. But no other shot after the one heard from Westerling's room was fired. The Grays were at grip with the fact of disaster.
"Hm-m indeed!" exclaimed Partow, lifting his brow into massive, corrugated wrinkles. "It may affect the stock market, but not the result." The other despatch was also out of the land of the Grays, but not by Westerling's consent or knowledge. By devious ways it had broken through the censorship of the frontier in cunning cipher.
It was beating into hers with the power of an overwhelming masculine passion and a maturity of intellect as his egoism admitted a comrade to its throne. Such is ever the way of the man in the forties when the clock strikes for him. But who could know better the craft of courtship than one of Westerling's experience? He was fighting for victory; to gratify a desire.
The strange impression that this farewell left with Bellini still lingered when, a few moments later, Westerling summoned him. Not alone the diffidence of a new member of the staff going into the Presence accounted for the stir in his temples, as he waited till some papers were signed before he had Westerling's attention. Then Westerling picked up Bouchard's note and shook his head sadly.
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