She came and laid a hand on his arm. “We’ve got to settle things with him,” she said. “If Dorl comes, Nett—”
There was silence for a moment, then he caught her hand in his and held it. “If he comes, leave him to me, Jo. You will leave him to me?” he added, anxiously.
“Yes,” she answered. “You’ll do what’s right—by Bobby?”
“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.”