“Why not?” Code had gone a sickly pallor that looked hideous through his tan.
“Because you’re goin’ home to St. Andrew’s to be tried for one.”
Code glanced over his left shoulder. The sun was there. The schooner was headed almost directly southwest. Nat had spoken the truth. They were headed homeward.
“Where’s your warrant?” Code could feel his teeth getting on edge with rage as he talked to this captor who bore himself with such insolence.
“Don’t need a warrant for murder cases, and I’m a constable at Freekirk Head, so everything is being done according to law. The gunboat didn’t find 182 you, so I thought, as long as you were right to hand, I’d bring you along.”
“Then you knew I was in St. Pierre?”
“Yes; saw you come in. If it hadn’t been so dark you’d have recognized the Nettie not far away.” Code, remembering the time of night they arrived, knew this to be impossible, for it is dark at six in September. He had barely been able to make out the lines of the nearest schooners.
A man was standing like a statue at the wheel, and, as he put the vessel over on the port tack, his face came brightly into the sun. It was ’Arry Duncan. Code had not been wrong, then, in thinking that he had seen the man’s face in St. Pierre.
“Fine traitor you’ve got there at the wheel,” said Schofield. “He’ll do you brown some day.”
“I don’t think so. Just because he did you, doesn’t prove anything. He was in my employ all the time, and getting real money for his work.”