Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two words with his finger. "Like that," he answered.
Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and then drew a long breath.
"Charles Rex," he said, hardly above his breath.
Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. "That name was droll, eh?"
Tybalt's blood was tingling with the joy of discovery. "It is a great name," he said shortly.
"The Slave was great—the Indians said so at the last."
"But that was not the name of the Slave?"
"Mais non. Who said so! Charles Rex—like that! was the man who wrote the letters."
"To the Great Slave?"
Pierre made a gesture of impatience. "Very sure."
"Where are those letters now?"