"There's a punishment coming to him that's better than anything you can give."
His glance shifted to hers, arrested.
"What you mean?"
"He's done something worse than the way he's treated me—something the law can get him for."
"What?"
"Sit down quiet here and I'll tell you."
She pointed to the overturned chair and made a step toward the sofa. He remained motionless, watching her with somberly doubting eyes.
"It's true," she said; "every word. It comes from Charlie Crowder. When you hear it you'll see, and you'll see too that you'll only mix things up by butting in. They're getting their net ready for him, and they'll have him in it before the week's out."
This time the words had their effect. He picked up the chair and brought it to the sofa. She sat there erect, her legs curled up beside her, and told him the story of Boyé Mayer and the stolen money.
The light was behind him and against it she saw him as a formless shape, the high, rounded back of the chair projecting above his head. The silence with which he listened she set down to interest, and feeling that she had gained his attention, that his wrath was appeased by this unexpected retribution, her own interest grew and the narrative flowed from her lips, fluent, complete, full of enlightening detail.