“Listen. I’ll tell you,” she cried. “Then maybe you’ll understand my feelings – since making my wager with you. Oh, the old story wouldn’t matter so much to me, only – only for that wager. Listen.”

Then she hurriedly told him the outline of the curse upon the tree, and further added an analysis of the situation in conjunction with the matter which stood between themselves. At the finish she pointed her argument.

“Need I say any more? Need I tell you that no logic or reason of any kind can put the conviction out of my mind that here, and now, we are to be faced with some dreadful tragedy as the price we must pay for the – the felling of that tree? I can’t help it – I know calamity will befall us.”

Fyles shook his head. The woman’s obvious convictions left him quite untouched. Had it been any other who spoke of it he would have derided the whole idea. But since it was Kate’s distress, Kate’s belief in the old legend, he refrained.

“The only calamity that can affect you, Kate, is a calamity for young Bryant,” he said seriously. “And yet you refuse to believe him concerned with the affairs of – Monday night. Surely you can have no misgivings on that score?”

Kate shook her head.

“Then what do you fear?” Fyles went on patiently.

Quite slowly the woman raised her big eyes to her companion’s face. For some moments they steadily looked into his. Then slowly into her gaze there crept an inscrutable expression that was not wholly without a shadow of a smile.

“It is your reason against my – superstition,” she said slowly. “On Monday night you will capture, or fail to capture, the gang you are after. Maybe it will be within an hour of the cutting down of that tree. Disaster will occur. Blood will flow. Death! Any, or all of these things. For whom? I cannot – will not – wait to see. I shall leave to-morrow morning after service – for Myrtle.”

Kate locked the door of the Meeting House behind them. Then she held out her hand. Fyles took it and pressed it tenderly.

“Why,” he asked gently, almost humbly, “have you so deliberately avoided me lately?”

The woman stroked Peter’s brown head as it was pushed forward beside the man’s shoulder.

“Why?” she echoed. Then she smiled up into the man’s face. “Because we are – antagonists – until after Monday. Good-bye.”

CHAPTER XXXII

TREACHERY

On his westward journey to camp Stanley Fyles did a good deal of thinking. Generally speaking he was of that practical turn which has no time for indulgence in the luxury of visions, and signs. Long experience had made him almost severe in his practice.

But, as he rode along pondering upon the few pleasant moments spent in Kate’s presence, his imagination slowly began to stir, and he found himself wondering; wondering, at first, at her credulity, and, presently, wondering if it were really possible that an old curse, uttered in the height of impotent human passion, could, by any occult process, possess a real effect.

He definitely and promptly denied it. He told himself more. He believed that only women, highly emotional women, or creatures of weaker intellect, could possibly put faith in such things. Kate belonged to neither of these sections of her sex. Then how did this strange belief come in a woman so keenly sensible, so full of practical courage?

Maybe it was the result of living so closely in touch with the soil. Maybe the narrow life of such a village as Rocky Springs had had its effect.

However, her belief, so strong, so passionate, had left an uncomfortable effect upon him. It was absurd, of course, but somehow he wished he had not heard the story of the old pine. At least not till after Monday. Kate had said they were to fell that tree at dawn. It was certainly a curious coincidence that they should have selected, as Kate had said, practically Monday night. The night of the whisky-running.

He smiled. However, the omen was surely in favor of his success. According to the legend the felling of the tree meant the end of crime in the valley, and the end of crime meant his – But blood would flow. Death. Whose blood? Whose – death?

His smile died out.

In these contingencies it meant a – hand to hand conflict. It meant – Who’s death did she dread? Surely she was not thinking of the police? They always carried their lives in their hands. It was part of their profession. She denied Charlie Bryant’s leadership, so – But in her own secret mind did she deny it? He wondered.

So he rode on probing the problem. Later he smiled again. She was thinking of himself. The vanity of the thought amused him, and he found himself shaking his head. Not likely. It was not her regard for him. He was certain in his mind that her wager was made in the full conviction that he would not win, and, consequently, she would not have to marry him. She certainly was a strange creature, and – charming.

However, she was concerned that somebody was to meet death, and she dreaded it. Furthermore, now he came to think of it, a similar belief, without the accompanying dread, was growing in him. He pulled himself together. The old superstition must not get hold of him. That would indeed be the height of folly.

But once the seed had been sown in his imagination the roots quickly strove to possess themselves of all the fertility such a rich soil afforded. He could not shake clear of their tendrils. Maybe it was the effect of his sympathy and regard for the woman. Maybe he was discovering that he, too, deep down beneath the veneer in which his work armored him, was possessed of that strange superstition which seems to possess all human life. He hated the thought, and still more hated the feeling the thought inspired.

He touched Peter’s flank with his heels, and the unaccustomed spur sent the highly strung beast plunging into a headlong gallop.

He was far beyond the village now, and more than half way to the camp, and presently he slowed down to that steady canter which eats up distance so rapidly without undue exertion for either man or beast. He strove to turn the course of his thoughts. He pondered upon the ungracious official letter of his superior, begrudging, but yielding to his persuasions. Things certainly were “coming his way.” At last he was to be given his final chance, and it was something to obtain such clemency in a force which existed simply by reason of its unfailing success. He had much to be thankful for. McBain would have fresh heart put into him. It would be something like a taste of hell for McBain to find himself reduced to the rank of trooper again, after all his years of successful service. Yes, he was glad for McBain’s —

Suddenly he checked the willing Peter, and drew him down to a walk. There was a horseman on the trail, some thirty or forty yards ahead. He had just caught sight of his dim outline against the starlit sky line. It was only for a moment. But it was sufficient for his trained eyes. He had detected the upper part of the man’s body, and the shadowy outline of a wide-brimmed prairie hat.

Now, as Peter moved at that shuffling, restful amble which all prairie horses acquire, he leaned down over the horn of his saddle and peered ahead. The man was sitting stock still upon his horse.

Instinctively Fyles’s hand went to his revolver, and remained there. When a man waits upon a western trail at night, it is as well that the traveler take no undue chances, particularly when he be one of the none too well loved red coats.

The policeman kept on. He displayed no hesitation. Finally he drew his horse to a standstill with its nose almost touching the shoulder of the stranger’s horse.

Fyles was peering forward in the darkness, and his revolver was in that position which, all unseen, kept its muzzle directly leveled at the horseman’s middle.

“Kind of lonesome sitting around here at night,” he said, with a keenly satirical inflection.

“You can put up your darn gun, inspector,” came the startling response. “Guess I had you covered from way back there, if I’d had a notion to shoot. Guess I ain’t in the ‘hold-up’ bizness. But I’ve been waiting for you – anyway.”

The man’s assurance had no effect upon the policeman. The latter pressed his horse up closer, and peered into the other’s face. The face he beheld startled him, although he gave no outward sign.

“Ah, Pete – Pete Clancy,” he said quietly. “Guess my gun’s always pretty handy. It won’t hurt where it is, unless I want it to. It’s liable to be more effective than your’s would have been – way back there.”

The man seemed to resign himself.

“Guess it don’t pay shootin’ up red coats,” he said, with a rough laugh.

“No.” Then in a moment Fyles put a sharp question. “You are waiting for – me? Why?”

Pete laughed, but his laugh was uneasy.

“Because I’m sick to death being agin the law.”

“Ah. Been taking a hand building the church back there?” The sarcasm was unmistakable, but it passed the other by.

“Ben takin’ a hand in most things – back there.”

“Sure. Find some of ’em don’t pay?”

The man shook his head.

“Guess they pay – mostly. ’Tain’t that.”

“What then?”

“Sort o’ feel it’s time to quit – bizness.”

“Oh. So you waited around for – me?”

Fyles understood the type of man he was dealing with. The half-breed was a life study of his. In the great West he was always of more interest to the police than any white man.

“We mostly wait around for the p’lice when we want to get out of business,” the man replied with meaning.

“Yes, some folks find it difficult getting out of business without the help of the police.”

“Sure,” returned Pete easily. “They need to do it right. They need to make things square.”

“For themselves?”

“Jest so – for ’emselves.”

The half-breed leaned over his horse’s shoulder and spat. Then he ostentatiously returned the gun he was holding to its holster.

“Maybe I’ll need him no more,” he said, with an obviously insincere sigh.

Fyles was quite undeceived.

“Surely – if you’re going out of business. What’s your – business?”

The man laughed.

“I used to be runnin’ whisky.” Then he chuckled softly. “Y’see, that chu’ch has got a hold on me. I’m feelin’ that pious I can’t bear the thought of runnin’ whisky – an’ I can’t bear the thought of – other folk runnin’ it. No, I’m quittin’ that bizness. I’m jest goin’ in fer straight buyin’ and sellin’ – inside the law.”

Fyles was watching the man closely in the dim night light. He knew exactly what the man was there for now. Furthermore he knew precisely how to deal with him. He was weighing in his mind the extent to which he could trust him. His detestation of the race increased, while yet every nerve was alert to miss no chance.

“Straight buying and selling is good when you’ve found a buyer, and got – something to sell,” he said.

The man shrugged.

“I sure got something to sell, an’ I guess you ought to be the buyer.”

Fyles nodded.

“I mostly buy – what I need. What’s your line?”

Again the man laughed. His uneasiness had passed. He felt they understood each other.

“Mostly hot air,” he said carelessly.

Fyles hated the man’s contemplated treachery. However, his duty was plain.

“Well, I might buy hot air – if it’s right, and the price is right.”

The man turned with an alert look and peered into the police officer’s face.

“They’re both right,” he said sharply. Then his manner changed abruptly to one of hot intensity. “Here let’s quit talkin’ fool stuff. I can tell you what you’re needin’ to know. And I’ll tell you, if you’ll pass me over, and let me quit clear without a question. I need to get across the border – an’ I don’t want to see the inside of no penitentiary, nor come up before any court. I want to get right away quick. See? I can tell you just how a big cargo’s comin’ into Rocky Springs. I know, because I’m one of ’em bringing it in. See? And when I’ve told you I’ve still got to bring it in, or those who’re running it with me would guess things, and get busy after me, or – or change their plans. See? Give us your word of a free run for the border, an’ I’ll put you wise. A free run clear, on your honor, in the name of the Government.”

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Fyles sharply.

“That’s up to me.”

“Why are you doing this?” Fyles insisted. “I need to know before I make any deal.”

“Do you?”

Pete thought for some moments, and Fyles waited. At last the man looked up, and his evil face was full of the venom of his words.

“I want to give ’em away,” he cried with bitter hatred. “I want to see the boss pass on to the penitentiary. See? I want to see the boss rot there for five good, dandy years.”

“Who’s the boss?” demanded Fyles sharply.

The man’s eyes grinned cunningly.

“Why, the feller you’re going to get Monday night, with fifty gallons of good rye.”

Fyles sat up.

“Monday night?” Then he went on. “Say, why do you want to put him away?”

“Ah.”

“Well?”

Again the half-breed hesitated. Then with a sudden exclamation of impatience his desire for revenge urged him on.

“Tcha! What’s the use?” he cried fiercely. “Say, have you ever had hell smashed out of your features by a lousy dude? No. Well, I owe a bit – a hell of a bit – to some one, and I guess I don’t owe nothing in this world else but money. Debts o’ this sort I generally pay when I get the chance. You’re goin’ to give me that chance.”

Fyles had satisfied himself. The man sickened him. Now he wanted to be done with him.

“What’s your story? I’ll pay you the price,” he cried, with utter contempt.

But the man wanted added assurance.

“Sure?” he cried eagerly. “You’re goin’ to get me with the rest? Savee? You’re goin’ to get me, an’ when you get me, you’re goin’ to give me twenty-four hours’ free run for the border?”

“If I get you you can go free – for twenty-four hours.”

The man’s face lit with a devilish grin of cruelty.

“Good. You’ll shake on it?” He held out his hand.

Fyles shook his hand.

“Guess it’s not necessary. My word goes. You’ve got to take my word, as I’ve got to take yours. Come on. I’ve no more time to waste.”

Pete withdrew his hand. He understood. His venom against the white race was only the further increased.

“Say,” he growled, his eyes lighting with added ferocity. “That cargo is to be run down the river on Monday night about midnight. There’ll be a big rack of hay come in by trail – the river trail – and most of the gang’ll be with it. If you locate it they calculate you’ll get busy unloading to find the liquor. Meanwhile the cargo’ll slip through on the river, in a small boat. Savee? Guess there’ll be jest one feller with that boat, an’ – he’ll be the feller that’s – that’s had you red coats skinned a mile all these months an’ years.”

Fyles gathered up his reins.

“Just one word,” he said coldly. “I hate a traitor worse than poison, but I’m paid to get these people. So my word goes, if your story’s true. If it isn’t – well, take my advice and get out quick, or – you won’t have time.”

Before the half-breed had time to reply Peter threw up his head, and set off at the touch of his master’s spurs.

CHAPTER XXXIII

PLAYING THE GAME

For some moments the two men faced each other in a sort of grim silence. It was already daylight. Sunday morning was breaking under a cloudless sky.

At last McBain rose from his seat at the deal table which served him for a desk. He reached out and turned out the lamp. Its light was no longer needed. Then he stretched himself and yawned.

“Had enough of it?” inquired Fyles, catching the infection and stifling a yawn.

“Just what you might notice, sir.” A shadowy smile played about the Scot’s hard mouth, but it was gone in a moment.

Fyles nodded.

“So have I,” he agreed. “But we’ve broke the back of things. And – you’ll be kept busy all day to – I was going to say to-morrow. I mean to-day.”

McBain sat down again.

“Yes, sir. A couple of hours’ sleep’ll do me, though. We daren’t spare ourselves. It’s sort of life and death to us.”

Fyles shot a keen look into the other’s face.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it were literally so.”

“You think, sir – ?”

McBain’s voice was sharply questioning.

But Fyles only laughed. There was no mirth in his expression, and McBain understood.

“Never mind,” the officer went on, with a careless shrug. “Best turn in. We’ll know all about it when the time comes.”

He rose from his seat, and McBain, with a brief “Good night, sir,” disappeared into the inner room.

But Fyles did not follow his example for a few moments. He went to the door and flung it open. Then he stood for awhile gazing out at the wonderful morning daylight, and drinking in the pure prairie air. While he stood thus his thoughts were busy, and a half smile was in his eyes. He was thinking of the irony of the fact that Kate Seton’s superstition had completely taken possession of him.

Two hours after sunrise McBain and his superior were at work again. They had snatched their brief sleep, but it was sufficient for these hardy riders of the plains. The camp was full of activity. Each man of the patrol had to be interviewed, and given minute instructions, also instructions for the arising of unforeseen circumstances, where individual initiative would require to be displayed. Then there were rations to be served out, and, finally, messengers must be sent to the supernumerary camp higher up the valley. But there was no undue bustle or haste. It was simply activity.

At ten o’clock Stanley Fyles left the camp. McBain would continue the work, which, by this time, had returned to conditions of ordinary routine.

Peter ambled gently down the valley. His rider seemed in no hurry. There was no need for hurry. The village was five miles away, and he had no desire to reach it until just before eleven. So he could take his leisure, sparing both himself and his horse for the great effort of the morrow.

Just for one brief moment he contemplated a divergence from his course. It was at the moment when he left the cattle track which led to his camp and joined the old Indian trail to the village. He reached the branching cattle track on the other side of it which would have led him to the mysterious corral, which was possessed of so much interest and suspicion. But he remembered that a visit thither would violate the conditions of his wager with Kate. The place belonged to Charlie Bryant. So he pushed on.

As he rode he thought of Kate Seton’s determination to absent herself during the critical events about to happen in the village. On the whole he was pleased with her decision. Somehow he felt he understood her feelings. The grip of her superstition had left him more understanding of her desire to get away.

Then, too, he would rather she were away when his own big effort came. Should he fail again, which now he believed impossible, he would rather she were not there to witness that failure. He knew, only too well, from bitter experience, how easy it was for the most complete plans to go awry when made against the genius of crime. No, he did not want her to witness his failure. Nor would he care to flaunt the success he anticipated, and consequently the error she had fallen into, before her distressed eyes. He felt very tender toward her. She was so loyal, so courageous in her beliefs, such a great little sportswoman. No, he must spare her all he could when he had won that wager. He would not demand his pound of flesh. He would release her from her debt, and just appeal to her through his love. And, somehow, when he had caught this man, Bryant, and so proved how utterly unworthy he was of her regard, he felt that possibly he would not have to appeal in vain.

He reached the old Meeting House as the earliest of the village folk were gathering for service. He did not ride up, but left Peter, much to that creature’s disquiet, tied in the bush some fifty yards from the place.

His interest became at once absorbed. He chatted pleasantly for a few moments with Mr. Blundell, the traveling Methodist minister, and greeted those of the villagers whom he had come to know personally. But all the while his eyes and ears were fully alert for the things concerning his purpose. He noted carefully all those who were present, but the absentees were his greatest interest. Not one of those who constituted the gang of smugglers was present, and particularly he noted Charlie Bryant’s absence.

Among the last to arrive were Big Brother Bill and Helen, and Fyles smiled as he beheld the careful toilet of the big city man. Helen, as usual, was clad in her best tailored suit, and looked particularly bright and smart when he greeted her.

“Miss Kate not at – service?” he inquired, as they paused at the door of the building.

Helen shook her head, and her face fell.

“No. She’s preparing for her journey to Myrtle,” said the girl. “How she can do with that noisy old creature Mrs. Radley I – I – well, she gets me beat every time. But Kate’s just as obstinate as a fifty-year-old mule. She’s crazy to get away from here, and – and I left her about to dope the wheels of the wretched old wagon she’s going to drive this afternoon. Oh, dear! But come along, Bill, they’re beginning service.”

A moment later the police officer was left alone outside the building.

It was not his way to take long arriving at a decision. He walked briskly away, and vanished amid the bush. A minute later he was once more in the saddle, heading for the bridge in front of Kate’s house.

Kate was still at her wagon when Fyles arrived. At the sound of his approach she straightened herself up with a smiling, half-embarrassed welcome shining in her eyes.

“Don’t you come too near,” she exclaimed. “I’m all over axle dope. It truly is the messiest job ever. But what are you to do when the boys clear out, and – and play you such a scurvy trick? I’ve been relying on Nick to drive me out and bring the wagon back. Now I’ll have to drive myself, and keep the wagon there, unless I can hire some one to bring it back, so Charlie can haul his last hay to-morrow.”

The policeman ran his eyes over the wagon. At the mention of Charlie Bryant’s name, his manner seemed to freeze up. He recognized the vehicle at once.

“It’s Bryant’s wagon?” he said shortly.

Kate nodded.

“Sure. He always lends it me when I want one. I haven’t one of my own.”

“I see.”

Fyles’s manner became more easy. Then he went on.

“Where are your boys? Where’s Pete?”

Kate’s eyes widened.

“Gracious goodness only knows,” she said, in sheer exasperation. “I only hope Nick turns up to drive me. I surely will have to get rid of them both. I’ve had enough of Pete since he got drunk and insulted Helen. Still, he got his med’cine from Bill all right. And he got the rough side of my tongue, too. Yes, I shall certainly get rid of both. Charlie’s always urging me to.” She wiped her hands on a cloth. “There, thank goodness I’ve finished that messy job.”

She released the jack under the axle, and the wheel dropped to the ground.

“Now I can load up my grips,” she exclaimed.

Fyles looked up from the brown study into which he had fallen.

“This Bill – this Big Brother Bill hammered master Pete to a – pulp?” he inquired, with a smile of interest.

“He certainly did,” laughed Kate. “And when he’d done with him I’m afraid my tongue completed the – good work. That’s why this has happened.” She indicated the wagon with a humorous look of dismay.

Fyles laughed. Then he sobered almost at once.

“I came here for two reasons,” he said curiously. “I came to – well – because I couldn’t stay away, for one thing. You see, I’m not nearly so much of a police officer as I am a mere human creature. So I came to see you before you went away. You see, so many things may happen on – Monday. The other reason was to tell you I’ve had a wonderful slice of – hateful good luck.”

“Hateful good luck?”

Kate raised a pair of wondering eyes to his face.

“Yes, hateful.” The man’s emphasis left no sort of doubt as to his feelings. “Of course,” he went on, “it’s ridiculous that sort of attitude in a policeman, but I can admire a loyal crook. Yes, I could have a friendly feeling for him. A traitor turns me sick in the stomach. One of the gang has turned traitor. He’s told me that detail you couldn’t give me. I’ve got their complete plan of campaign.”

The wonder in Kate’s eyes had become one steady look of inquiry.

“Their complete plan of campaign?” she echoed. Then in a moment a great excitement seemed to rise up in her. It found expression in the rapidity of her words.

“Then you know that – Charlie is innocent? You know now how wrong you were? You know that I have been right all the way through, and that you have been wrong? Tell me! Tell me!” she cried.

Stanley Fyles shook his head.

“I’m sorry. The man had the grace to refuse me the leader’s identity. I only got their plan – but it’s more than enough.”

Kate breathed a sigh as of regret.

“That’s too bad,” she cried. “If he’d only told you that, it might – it might have cleared up everything. We should have had no more of this wretched suspicion of an innocent man. It might have altered your whole plan of campaign. As it is – ”

“It leaves me more than ever convinced I am on a red-hot scent which must now inevitably lead me to success.”

For a few moments Kate looked into the man’s face as though waiting for him to continue. Then, at last, she smiled, and the man thought he had never beheld so alluring a picture of feminine persuasion.

“Am I to – know any more?” she pleaded.

The appeal became irresistible.

“There can be no harm in telling you,” he said. “You gave me the first help. It is to you I shall largely owe my success. Yes, you may as well know, and I know I can rely on your discretion. You were able to tell me of the coming of the liquor, but you could not tell me exactly how it was coming. The man could tell me that – and did. It is coming in down the river in a small boat. One man will bring it – the man who runs the gang. While this is being done a load of hay, accompanied by the whole gang, will come into the town as a blind. It is obvious to me they will come in on the run, hoping to draw us. Then, when caught, they rely on our search of the wagon to delay us – while the boat slips through. It’s pretty smart, and,” he added ruefully, “would probably have been successful – had I not been warned. Now it is different. Our first attention will be that boat.”

Kate’s eyes were alight with the warmest interest. She became further excited.

“It’s smart,” she cried enthusiastically. “They’re – they’re a clever set of rascals.” Then, for a moment, she thought. “Of course, you must get that boat. What a sell for them when you let the wagon go free. Say, it’s – it’s the greatest fun ever.”

Fyles smilingly agreed. This woman’s delight in the upsetting of the “runners” plans was very pleasant to him. There could be no doubt as to her sympathies being with him. If only she weren’t concerned for Bryant he could have enjoyed the situation to the full.

Suddenly she looked up into his face with just a shade of anxiety.

“But this – informer,” she said earnestly. “They’ll – kill him.”

Fyles laughed.

“He’ll be over the border before they’re wise, and they’ll be held safe – anyway.”

Kate agreed.

“I’d forgotten that,” she said thoughtfully. Then she gave a shiver of disgust. “I – I loathe an informer.”

“Everybody with any sense of honor – must,” agreed Fyles. “Informer? I’d sooner shake hands with a murderer. And yet we have to deal and bargain with them – in our work.”

“I was just wondering,” said Kate, after another pause, “who he could be. I – I’m not going to ask his name. But – do I know him?”

The policeman laughingly shook his head.

“I must play the game, even – with an informer. Say, there’s an old saw in our force, ‘No names, no pack-drill.’ It fits the case now. When the feller’s skipped the border, maybe you’ll know who he is by his absence from the village.”

Suddenly Kate turned to her wagon. She gazed at it for some moments. Then she turned about, and, with a pathetic smile, gave vent to her feelings.

“Oh, dear,” she cried. “I – I wish it was after dinner. I should be away then. I feel as if I never – never wanted to see this valley again – ever. It all seems wrong. It all seems like a nightmare now. I feel as if at any moment the ground might open up, and – and swallow me right up. I – I feel like a dizzy creature standing at the edge of a precipice. I – I feel as if I must fall, as if I wanted to fall. I shall be so glad to get away.”

“But you’ll come back,” the man cried urgently. “It’s – only till after Monday.” Then he steadied himself, and smiled whimsically. “Remember, we have our wager. Remember, in the end you either have to – laugh at me, or – marry me. It’s a big stake for us both. For me especially. Your mocking laughter would be hard to bear in conjunction with losing you. Oh, Kate, we entered on this in a spirit of antagonism, but – but I sort of think it’ll break my heart to – lose. You see, if I lose, I lose you. You, I suppose, will feel glad – if you win. It’s hard.” His eyes grew dark with the contemplation of his possible failure. “If I could only hope it would be otherwise. If I could only feel that you cared, in however slight a degree. It would not seem so bad. If I win I have only won you. I have not won your love. The whole thing is absurd, utterly ridiculous, and mad. I want your love, not – not – just you.”

Kate made no answer, and the man went on.

“Do you know, Kate, as the days go on in this place, as the moment of crisis approaches, I am growing less and less of a policeman. I’m even beginning to repent of my wager with you, and but for the chance of winning you, I should be glad to abandon it. Love has been a hidden chapter in the book of life to me up till now, and now, reading it, it quite overwhelms me. Do you know I’ve always despi