"They disappeared from the shack they were living in," I said. "They went in a hurry—a very great hurry."
That one he didn't answer, either.
"I would like to know where she is."
"Why?" His whisper was brittle.
"She's not in trouble," I told him quickly. "She's not wanted. Nor her child, either. It's just that I have to talk to her."
"Why?"
I pulled out the file photo of Harry Smythe and handed it across to him. His wrinkled hand took it, pinched it, held it up close to a lamp hanging from one of the ridge poles. His eyes squinted at it for a long moment before he handed it back.
"I have never seen this Earthman," he said.
"All right," I answered. "There wasn't anything that made me think you had. The point is that he knows the woman. It follows, naturally, that she might know him."
"This one is wanted?" His old, broken tones went up slightly on the last word.