“Certainly!”
They walked away from the door, followed by the sharp, secret glances of the Crees. Gault rubbed his upper lip. Under the mask he wore, an uneasiness made itself felt. Certainly he had not expected Loseis to look him up, nor could he guess what was coming.
She wasted no words in coming to the point. “When you heard of my father’s death you hastened over here to help me, you said. If your intentions were good, I thank you.”
“Do you doubt it?” asked Gault sharply.
She spread out her hands. “What difference does that make now? Whether you wished to help me or not it would be impossible under the present circumstances.” She paused for a moment. It required a strong nerve to say this to Andrew Gault. “I must therefore ask you to leave the Post as soon as possible.”
There was a silence. Gault stared at her incredulously. In spite of his iron self-control a blackish flush spread under his skin. Infernal passions were raging under his mask. But he fought them down. He said nothing. He fell back a step, that Loseis could not see his face without turning squarely around.
“Well?” she said sharply. “Have you nothing to say?”
“What is there to say?” he murmured.
“You could refuse to go,” said Loseis proudly. “If you refused to go, of course I could not make you.”
“I could not refuse,” said Gault with a sort of hollow reverberation of his usual full and courteous tones. “You put me in an extraordinarily difficult position. I do not think you should be left alone here; but of course I cannot stay.”