“Has he gone?” asked Gault.
“I expect so,” said Loseis. “I did not go down the hill with him.”
Gault rubbed his lip. He didn’t know whether or not to believe her.
He felt his way carefully. “Conacher seems like a fine young fellow,” he remarked. “Have you known him long?”
Loseis remained standing by the fire. “Oh, he stopped here for three days,” she said coolly. “But I scarcely saw him then.”
“How did he learn so soon of your father’s death?”
“I never thought to ask him,” said Loseis with a clear brow. “By moccasin telegraph, I suppose. The Slavis are continually traveling up and down the river.”
“It is too bad that he is in the government employ,” said Gault.
Loseis had no intention of discussing the man she loved with another man. She remained silent. She had a good capacity for holding her tongue. It was her only defense against Gault’s smooth talk; and it was a better defense than she realized.
Gault was obliged to go on and answer the question without its having been asked. “They never come to anything,” he said. “They are no more than clerks all their lives.”