Captain Bolt announced to me and to every other person in the lobby. “Bold as brass. Trying to jiggle the lock. But we were watching, yes, sir. Just like you said.” His eyes roamed the grand geography of Mr. Barnaby’s person. “Now we know who’s been sneaking around here killing folks.” Bolt wore the expression of a dog who has done his trick. Half-witted he was, and that is putting it kindly. I recalled the general’s mention of a powerful, wealthy father, doubtless one of our self-made men of the West. What a sorrow it must have been for such a man to produce so feeble a son. Twas a caution to us all, a tale of generations risen and fallen. It made me think of my son John, about whom I worried helplessly. I prayed my boy would be stalwart, healthy and Christian. “Take those irons off him,” I said. I did not say it gently, but spoke in heat. Captain Bolt’s nonsense had drawn a score of spectators in uniform—men who should have been laboring at their posts, instead of loafing about in a hotel.
