“Can you swim?” asked Conacher.
She sadly shook her head.
“Hm! that’s awkward. . . . But maybe I could manage. . . . There is that little air pillow in my outfit. . . .”
They heard Mary-Lou approaching out of the next room, and drew apart.
“What on earth will we do with her?” whispered Loseis.
Conacher shook his head in complete perplexity. “We’ll talk it over later,” he whispered.
Mary-Lou had come to clean up the breakfast dishes. The past four days had made a shocking change in the appearance of the comely Indian girl. She was too apathetic to resent being excluded from their counsels; and Conacher and Loseis went on with their whispering.
All day they alternately whispered together, and parted from each other to think over the matter afresh. To have this absorbing matter to talk over relieved the tension; the hours passed more quickly. They surveyed their plan from every angle, continually rejecting this expedient, and accepting that. Little by little they built up a reasonable-seeming structure. Of course the best plan they could make depended upon so many chances for its success, that there were many moments when they despaired. But at such moments Conacher would always say: “Still, anything would be better than this!” Whereupon they would set their wits to work afresh.
Some hours later Conacher said: “One thing is certain. It would have twice as good a chance of success if we could prepare Gault’s mind beforehand for such a thing to happen. We ought to send him a letter.”
“How could we send him a letter?” asked Loseis.