At the end of a brief silence, Markham spoke, his voice quavering with rage.
"If you don't go at once, Vance, and let me run this office myself, I'll have no choice but to call in those policemen."
Vance smiled. He knew Markham would take no such extreme measures. After all, the issue between these two friends was an intellectual one; and though Vance's actions had placed it for a moment on a physical basis, there was no danger of its so continuing.
Markham's belligerent gaze slowly turned to one of profound perplexity.
"Why are you so damned interested in Leacock?" he asked gruffly. "Why this irrational insistence that he remain at large?"
"You priceless, inexpressible ass!" Vance strove to keep all hint of affection out of his voice. "Do you think I care particularly what happens to a Southern army captain? There are hundreds of Leacocks, all alike—with their square shoulders and square chins, and their knobby clothes, and their totemistic codes of barbaric chivalry. Only a mother could tell 'em apart. . . . I'm int'rested in you, old chap. I don't want to see you make a mistake that's going to injure you more than it will Leacock."
Markham's eyes lost their hardness: he understood Vance's motive, and forgave him. But he was still firm in his belief of the Captain's guilt. He remained thoughtful for some time. Then, having apparently arrived at a decision, he rang for Swacker and asked that Phelps be sent for.
"I've a plan that may nail this affair down tight,"
