“What does this mean?” demanded Loseis.
Moale turned his flat, inscrutable black eyes to the girl’s face. The dash of Indian blood lent a touch of mystery to Moale’s olive face. It was a comely face; but so expressionless it was impossible to tell the man’s age. “I beg your pardon?” he said in his pleasant voice.
“You heard me!” said Loseis in a passion. “By what authority have you broken into my warehouse, and helped yourself to my fur?”
It was quite true that Moale had opened one of the bales for no reason except the pleasure of seeing and stroking the marvelous pelts of the black foxes. He was a connoisseur. He said smoothly: “Mr. Gault’s orders, Miss. I thought you knew.”
“I did not know,” said Loseis, “and I will trouble you to have the fur carried back again, and the door locked.”
Moale scratched his head. “I’d be glad if you’d talk it over with Mr. Gault,” he said.
Loseis imperiously beckoned to the nearest Cree. “Man!” she said, “tell Gault that I would be glad to have a few words with him.”
While they waited for Gault, Moale busied himself with tying up the opened bale. He did not speak; but he looked at Loseis curiously and wistfully, when she was not aware of it.
Gault was presently to be seen approaching from the men’s house. He did not hurry himself. “Good morning,” he said, raising his hat. His manner had changed. He was still polite, but it was an insolent politeness. His eyes were as hard as glass.
Loseis welcomed the change. It permitted her to come out into the open. “Why did you give orders to get out my fur?” she asked.