Pierce was inclined to ignore the salutation, but curiosity got the better of him and he answered: 

“Well!  This is a surprise.  Do you own a pair of seven-league boots or—­what?”

McCaskey bared his teeth further.  In triumph he said:  “Thought you’d lost me, didn’t you?  But I fooled you-fooled all of you.  I jumped out to the States and caught the last boat for St. Michael, made connections there with the last up-river packet, and—­here I am.  I don’t quit; I’m a finisher.”

Pierce noted the emphasis with which Joe’s last words were delivered, but as yet his curiosity was unsatisfied.  He wondered if the fellow was sufficiently calloused to disregard his humiliating experience or if he proposed in some way to conceal it.  Certainly he had not evaded recognition, nor had he made the slightest attempt to alter his appearance.  From his bold insouciance it seemed evident that he was totally indifferent as to who recognized him.  Either the man possessed moral courage of the extremest sort or else an unbelievable effrontery.

As for Pierce, he was deeply resentful of Joe’s false accusation—­ the memory of that was ineradicable—­nevertheless, in view of the outcome of that cowardly attempt, he had no desire for further revenge.  It seemed to him that the fellow had been sufficiently punished for his misdeed; in fact, he could have found it easy to feel sorry for him had it not been for the ill-concealed malice in Joe’s present tone and attitude.

He was upon the point of answering Joe’s indirect threat with a warning, when his attention was attracted to a short, thick-set, nervous man at his elbow.  The latter had edged close and was staring curiously at him.  He spoke now, saying: 

“So you’re Phillips, eh?”

It was Joe who replied:  “Sure.  This is him.”

There was no need of an introduction.  Pierce recognized the stranger as another McCaskey, for the family likeness was stamped upon his features.  During an awkward moment the two men eyed each other, and Joe McCaskey appeared to gloat as their glances clashed.

“This is Frank,” the latter explained, with a malicious grin.  “He and Jim was pals.  And, say!  Here’s another guy you ought to meet.”  He laid a hand upon still a second stranger, a man leaning across the bar in conversation with a white-aproned attendant.  “Count, here’s that fellow I told you about.”

The man addressed turned, exposing a handsome, smiling blond face ornamented with a well-cared-for mustache.  “I beg pardon?” he exclaimed, vacuously.

“Meet Phillips.  He can give you some dope on your wife.”  Joe chuckled.  Phillips flushed; then he paled; his face hardened.

“Ah!  To be sure.”  Count Courteau bowed, but he did not extend his hand.  “Phillips!  Yes, yes.  I remember.  You will understand that I’m distracted for news of Hilda.  She is with you, perhaps?”

“I left her employ at White Horse.  If she’s not here, she’ll probably arrive soon.”