“Well!  I managed to reach the States again, and eventually came over this side of the line.  As I had been convicted and sentenced under the alias which I had adopted while in England—­my real name never coming out—­I resumed my name of Gully again when I settled down here.  My relatives, what few I possess, have never known of my conviction and imprisonment.  All the time I was in England on my second trip I was clean-shaven, but on returning to the States I let my moustache grow once more.  As you said, Kilbride—­it is a very effectual disguise.  Will one of you give me a drink, please?  My mouth’s pretty dry with all this talking.”

Yorke got up and brought him a glass of water, and he drank it down with a murmur of thanks.

“Now!” he said, continuing his narrative:  “I’m coming to the worst part of all.  You’ll all wonder I’ve not gone mad—­brooding; but I’ve got to go through with it.  When I settled down here I honestly did struggle hard to live down my past and start afresh with a clean sheet.  I borrowed some money from an old ex-sheriff friend of mine in Montana—­which loan, by the way, I have paid all back—­every cent—­and bought”—­he gazed gloomily at Kilbride—­“what was my home.  But somehow . . .  Fate seems to have dogged me and tripped me up in the end.  Until last January everything was going well with me.  As Slavin and Yorke here can testify . . .  I was conducting myself fairly and squarely with all men.

“Then—­one day Yorke brought that Blake and Moran case up in front of me.  Both of these men I’d met before, but they didn’t recognize me again—­not absolutely.  I usually contrived to keep pretty clear of them for reasons which will appear obvious later.  I’m coming to that.  Moran I recognised as a former Montana tough who used to hang around Havre—­bronco-buster, cow-puncher, and tin-horn by turns.  Many a time I’ve caught him sizing me up, in Cow Run and elsewhere—­mighty hard, too, but he never seemed to be sure of me.  Once he did chance a feeler, but I just twirled my moustache, a la Lord Tomnoddy, and bluffed him to a finish.

“Larry Blake”—­a ruthless gleam flickered momentarily in Gully’s deep-set, shadowy eyes—­“Larry Blake, I recognized as the son of the Governor of Barmsworth Prison—­old Gavin Blake.  Sometimes this young fellow used to come around with his father, when the old gentleman was making his daily tour of inspection.  I well remember the first time I saw him—­young Larry.  I was chipping stone in the quarry, amongst a gang, with a ball and chain on.  I’d been in about two months then.  The Governor was showing some visitors around, and his son was with him.  They were staring at us like people do at wild animals in a show.  I was pointed out to them, and my recent crime mentioned.  I remember young Blake eying me with especial interest.  He came out to Canada and hit these parts about two years after I’d located here.