Outside a dripping mist had clouded the hills and
chilled the hot air.
The two men smoked silently, knocking out their ashes and refilling with
the regularity of clockwork. Lewis was thinking hard, thinking of the
bitterness of dashed hopes, of self-confidence clutched at and lost. He
saw as if in an inspiration the trend of Marker's plans. He had been
given a paltry fictitious errand, like a bone to a dog, to quiet him.
Some devilry was afoot and he must be got out of the road. For a second
the thought pleased him, the thought that at least one man held him
worthy of attention, and went out of his way to circumvent him. But the
gleam of satisfaction was gone in a moment. He could not even be sure
that there was guile at the back of it. It might be all foolish
honesty, and to a man cursed with a sense of weakness the thought of
such a pedestrian failure was trebly intolerable.
But honesty was inconceivable. He and he alone in all the frontier
country knew Marker and his ways. To Andover, sucking his pipe dismally
beside him, the thing appeared clear as the daylight. Marker, the best
man alive, had word of some Bada-Mawidi doings and had given a friendly
hint. It was not his blame if the thing had fizzled out like damp
powder. But to Lewis, Marker was a man of uncanny powers and
intelligence beyond others, the iron will of the true adventurer.
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