“Yes. Heard about it yesterday in St. James.”
Fulsom puffed, spat into the fire, and asked a question.
“Know anything about it?”
Despite the careless tone, despite the offhand manner of the speaker, Hardrock sensed something beneath the surface. He was astonished by the manner in which he had met Fulsom; yet he was not astonished that the sheriff had appeared. Fiction to the contrary, every abnormal detail of life in civilized communities involves a consequence; for what we call civilization is simply the ways of men set in a groove, and any departure from that groove brings investigation.
With this intangible flash of mind to mind, with this singular “feel” that something unsaid lay behind that question, Hardrock considered briefly and then answered it in utmost frankness.
“Sheriff, if I told you all I knew or thought about it, the chances are that you’d arrest me.”
Fulsom gave him a glance, and grinned.
“I’d have a hell of a job doin’ it, wouldn’t I—not to mention gettin’ you off to jail?”
Hardrock broke into a laugh. “Good for you! Here’s what I know.”
And he told what had happened to him since arriving on Beaver Island.