“Coaling,” said Power, shortly.
It was plain to me that he disliked being asked questions. It must have been plain to Godfrey, too, for he immediately asked another.
“How did you get coal in a place like this?”
“Dear me,” said Marion, “how very unromantic! I thought you were smuggling!”
Godfrey’s face assumed an expression of quite unusual intelligence. He suspected Power of evil practices of some sort. Marion’s suggestion of smuggling delighted him.
“But where did you get the coal?” he persisted.
“My dear Godfrey,” I said, “for all you or I know there may be hundreds of tons of it piled up in the co-operative store. Crossan has a wonderful business instinct. He may have speculated on a visit from some large steamer and be making a large profit. I am the principal shareholder, and nothing pleases me better than to see the store succeeding.”
I knew, as a matter of fact, that Crossan had no coal. I also knew that the Finola was not coaling. The carts were loaded when they were going up the hill. They would have been empty if they had been going to get coal for the Finola. I made my remark in the hope of discouraging Godfrey from asking more questions.
“I wish you would smuggle something,” said Marion. “I should love to have some French lace laid at my door in a bale in the middle of the night.”
Marion reads novels, and the smugglers in these import French lace. In real life the only people who try to cheat the nation out of its duty on lace are tourist ladies, and they would not share their spoils with Marion.