Burt L. Standish

“ The instant Bob turned he saw that Joyce was either beside himself with rage, or giving a most astonishingly good imitation of that condition. His face was purple, with veins standing out on his forehead like cords. His eyes glared with that combination of rage and hate which a badly frightened man almost invariably feels for the cause of his mental disturbance. The automatic was leveled in his hand, and one finger trembled on the trigger.
For a single instant Bainbridge stood rigid, every muscle suddenly tensing. Perhaps he read a hint of Joyce’s purpose in the fellow’s eye ”

“ Sears frowned indignantly; then his face brightened.
“In spite of everything I think I should bet on you.” he chuckled. “There’s a certain vigor in your method of dealing with these people which makes for success. I really believe you’ll win, Mr. Bainbridge, and I surely hope so. It has been a great pleasure to meet you, and I trust one to be repeated. I shall be hereabouts for some time yet, and may run across you before I leave.”
Bob warmly reciprocated his feeling, and, after a hearty handshake, turned south along the river, while Sears disappeared in the undergrowth to the westward. ”

“ Bob did not get in till later. Assured that all was well with the cook and his staff, he went on downstream to see how Peters and his gang were progressing. On his return he discovered a stranger warming himself by the drying fire. He looked like an old-time woodsman, and the instant Bainbridge appeared he was on his feet, extracting an envelope from the interior of his hat. ”