“And I,” murmured Smythe; “I too, Thomas.”
Watson made a jesture of disgust.
“Yes, you, too. Well, what are we going to do about it? Of course, the Colonel will go over to Bushwhackers’ Place, now the trail is clear.”
“He will likely go as soon as he can,” said Smythe in a low voice. “If the weather hadn’t stopped him from going before now——”
“But there’s nothing to stop him now,” broke in Watson. “The trail’s clear, as you know, and winter is about spent. Cursed one it has been, too,” he added with a shiver.
Smythe came over and sat on the edge of the table. He picked up a fork and toyed with it thoughtfully. At length, his light eyes shifting about the room, and his voice softened almost to a whisper, he said:
“The dear Colonel is taking a big chance in visiting Bushwhackers’ Place now. It’s almost suicide for him to attempt it.”
Watson glanced at the speaker and wiped his face on his hand.
“I wish there was some way to prevent his going,” he returned, “—if only for a day or two. We’ve got to get out of here—that’s all.”
Smythe crept over to the window and pulled down the blind. The rain was falling heavily now and the wind had risen to a roar that shook the solid structure.