"Tom," she said, with a little gasp, "who can it be?"
Leger laid down the kettle he held in his hand. "The troopers, I'm afraid," he said.
The light was growing clearer, and they could see each other's faces. Hetty's was flushed and apprehensive, Leger's portentously quiet.
"They've come for Tomlinson," she said. "Tom, do you know why he threw Probyn in the creek?"
"I fancy I could guess. Tomlinson, however, never mentioned it."
"He wouldn't," and Hetty gasped again. "Tom, I'll never forgive you if you let the troopers know anything about him."
"I really don't think that was necessary," said Leger, with a faint, dry smile.
Hetty clenched one hand tight. "Oh," she said, "can't we run away?"
Leger turned and pointed to a shadowy figure that materialized out of the gloom among the trees below. There were others behind it, and the two stood still watching them as they came quickly up the trail. Then they stopped at a sharp word, and a man in a big fur-coat stepped forward. Hetty had no difficulty in recognizing him as Esmond.
"Are you willing to tell me where Prospector Tomlinson is? It would be the wisest thing," he said.