He went into the cabin. We heard the creak of his bunk as he threw himself down. Broderick clasped both hands over his knees and stared at the ground. His brows knitted, as over some problem he strove to solve. After a minute, he looked at me.
“Joe unburdened his soul very completely,” he said. “Does his right name happen to be Galloway?”
“Why, yes, that’s his name,” said I—surprised into admission. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t know,” Broderick muttered. “But I had a hunch.”
He sat for a little while, picking up pebbles and casting them over the bank with a flip of his hand. Then he, too, rose and went into the cabin.
The door stood open beside me, and the small window above my head. Every word they uttered within came distinctly to me. I heard Broderick repeat almost word for word, impatiently, challengingly, the last questioning sentences he had put to Joe.
“Why bother me with your theories,” Galloway answered roughly. “What is it to you? What do you know about these things I’ve been fool enough to talk about?”
“I know all there is to know about it,” Broderick answered slowly. “A great deal more than you yourself know. I’m the other man.”
I drew beyond hearing at that. It lay between the two of them, a matter intimate and grievous, not for casual ears. So I moved to the corner, where only came the indistinguishable drone of their voices, wondering to myself if the devil that rises in men where a woman is concerned would presently set them at each other’s throats. They were strong, passionate men. I was a little afraid for them, for I liked them both.
An hour passed. Dusk merged into darkness. Still they talked, their voices never rising above that repressed murmur. Then the lamp flashed its yellow square through the doorway, and both came out. Joe turned away and walked along the cliff slowly, a dim outline in the night. Broderick stood looking about. Presently he called: