"Look here!" he cried, "how many of those Benicia muskets are there?"

"About a hundred and fifty stand, sir," Howard told him.

"Now they can't help us a whole lot," propounded Ware. "They are too few. But why can't we use them for bait, to get those people on the wrong side of the fence?"

"What do you mean?" asked Terry, who knew Ware intimately.

"Suppose they are shipped from Benicia to the armouries in the city; they are legally Federal property until they are delivered, aren't they?"

"Certainly."

"Well, if the Stranglers should happen to seize them while they're still Federal property, they've committed a definite offence against the United States, haven't they?"

"What do we care about that now?" asked Major Marmaduke Miles, to whom this seemed irrelevant.

But Judge Terry's legal mind was struck with the beauty and simplicity of this ruse.

"Hold on!" he cried. "If we ship them in a boat, the seizure will be piracy. If they intercept those arms, they're pirates, and we can legally call on the Federal forces--_and they'll be compelled to respond, egad!_"

"They're pretty smart; suppose they smell a rat?" asked Miles doubtfully.

"Then we'll have the muskets where we want them, anyway. It's worth trying," replied Ware.

"I know just the man," put in Terry. "I'll send for him."

Shortly appeared a saturnine, lank, bibulous individual known as Rube Maloney. To him Terry explained. He was to charter a sloop, take the muskets aboard--and get caught.

"No resistance, mind you!" warned Terry.

"Trust me for that," grinned Rube. "I ain't anxious for no punctured skin, nor yit a stretched neck."

"Pick your men carefully."

"I'll take Jack Phillips and Jim McNab," said Rube, after a moment's thought, "and possibly a few refreshments?" he suggested.

Terry reached into his pocket.

"Certainly, certainly," said he. "Treat yourself well."

There remained only to see that the accurate details should get to the Committee of Vigilance, but in such a manner as to avoid suspicion that the information had been "planted."

"Is there anybody we can trust on their rolls?" asked Terry.

But it was reluctantly conceded that the Vigilantes had pretty well cleaned out the doubtful ones. Here again, the resourceful Jimmy Ware came to the rescue.

"I know your man--Morrell. He'll get it to them. As far as anybody knows, he hasn't taken sides at all."

"Will you see him?" asked Terry.

"I'll see him," promised Jimmy Ware.

LXVIII

By this time the Vigilante organization had pretty well succeeded in eliminating the few Law and Order sympathizers who had been bold enough to attempt to play the part of spy by signing the rolls. These had not been many, and their warning had been sufficient. But Morrell had, in a measure, escaped distrust even if he had not gained confidence. He had had the sense not to join the organization; and his att.i.tude of the slightly supercilious, veiledly contemptuous Britisher, scorning all things about him, was sufficient guarantee of his neutrality. This breed was then very common. He left his conference with Jimmy Ware thoroughly instructed, quite acquiescent, but revolving matters in his own mind to see if somehow he could not turn them to his advantage. For Morrell was, as always, in need of money. In addition, he had a personal score to settle with Keith for, although he had apparently forgotten their last interview regarding "loans," the memory rankled.

And Morrell had not forgotten that before all this Vigilante business broke he had been made a good offer by Cora's counsel to get Keith out of the way. Cora was now very dead, to be sure; but on sounding Jimmy Ware, Morrell learned that Keith's removal would still be pleasant to the powers that pay.

If he could work these things all in together--Cogitating absorbedly, he glanced up to see Ben Sansome sauntering down the street, his malacca cane at the proper angle, his cylindrical hat resting lightly on his sleek locks, his whole person spick with the indescribably complete appointment of the dandy. Sansome was mixed up with the Keiths--perhaps he could be used--On impulse Morrell hailed him genially, and invited him to take a drink. The exquisite brightened, and perceptibly hastened his step. Morrell's rather ultra-Anglicism always fascinated him. They turned in at the El Dorado, and there seated themselves at the most remote of the small tables.

"Well," said Morrell cheerfully, after preliminary small talk had been disposed of, "how goes the fair Nancy?"

Sansome's effeminately handsome face darkened. Things had in reality gone very badly with the fair Nancy. Her revulsion against Sansome at the time of the capture of the jail had been complete; and as is the case with real revulsions, she had not attempted to conceal it.

Sansome's careful structure, which had gained so lofty an elevation, had collapsed like the proverbial house of cards. His vanity had been cruelly rasped. And what had been more or less merely a dilettante's attraction had been thereby changed into a thwarted pa.s.sion.

"d.a.m.n the fair Nancy!" he cried, in answer to Morrell's question.

Morrell's eyes narrowed, and he motioned quietly to the waiting black to replenish the gla.s.ses.

"With all my heart, d.a.m.n her!" said he. "I agree with you; she's a snippy, cold little piece. Not my style at all. Not worth the serious attention of a man like yourself. Who is it now, you sly dog?"

Sansome sipped at his drink; sighed sentimentally.

"Cold--yes--but if the right man could awaken her--" he murmured.

"Look here, Sansome, do you want that woman?"

Sansome looked at his companion haughtily; his eye fell; he drew circles with the bottom of his gla.s.s.

"By gad!" he cried with a sudden queer burst of fire; "I've got to have her!"

And then he turned slowly red, actually started to wriggle, concealed his embarra.s.sment under cover of his cigar.

"H'm," observed Morrell speculatively, without looking across at Sansome. "Tell me, Ben, does she still care for her husband?"

"No; that I'll swear!" replied Sansome eagerly.

"If you're sure of that one essential little fact, and you really want her, why don't you take her?"

"d.a.m.n it, ain't I telling you? She won't see me."

"Tell me about it," urged Morrell, settling back, and again motioning for fresh drinks.

Sansome, whose soul was ripe for sympathy, needed little more urging.

He poured out his tale, sometimes rushingly and pa.s.sionately, again, as his submerged but still conventional self-consciousness straggled to the surface, with shamefaced bravado. "By Gad!" he finished. "You know, I feel like a raw schoolboy, talkin' like this!"