“And by Dorl, too,” he replied strangely. There were loud footsteps without.
“It’s Goatry,” said Foyle. “You stay here. I’ll tell him everything. He’s all right; he’s a true friend. He’ll not interfere.”
The handle of the door turned slowly. “You keep watch on the post-office, Jo,” he added.
Goatry came round the opening door with a grin. “Hope I don’t intrude,” he said, stealing a half-leering look at the girl. As soon as he saw her face, however, he straightened himself up and took on different manners. He had not been so intoxicated as he had made, out, and he seemed only “mellow” as he stood before them, with his corrugated face and queer, quaint look, the eye with the cast in it blinking faster than the other.
“It’s all right, Goatry,” said Foyle. “This lady is, one of my family from the East.”
“Goin’ on by stage?” Goatry said vaguely, as they shook hands.
She did not reply, for she was looking down the street, and presently she started as she gazed. She laid a hand suddenly on Foyle’s arm.
“See—he’s come,” she said in a whisper, and as though not realising Goatry’s presence. “He’s come.”
Goatry looked as well as Foyle. “Halbeck—the devil!” he said.
Foyle turned to him. “Stand by, Goatry. I want you to keep a shut mouth. I’ve work to do.”