She let it go at that.
“You don’t remember the days when I was courting you?”
“No,” she said with an idle air, “where was that?”
He saw the trap. “I’ll tell you some other time.—Redbreast has long ears.”
While Imbrie’s attention was occupied by Clare a possible way of sending her a message occurred to Stonor. The woman was busy at some paces’ distance. Stonor was sitting on a flat stone with his feet in the sand. Carelessly picking up a stick, he commenced to make letters in the sand. Clare, whose eyes never left him for long, instantly became aware of what he was doing; but so well did she cover her glances that Imbrie took no alarm.
Stonor, printing a word at a time, and instantly rubbing it out with his foot, wrote: “Make out to scorn me.”
Meanwhile Imbrie was making agreeable conversation and Clare was leading him on sufficiently to keep him interested. Small as his success was, he was charmed with it. Finally he rose regretfully.
“Time to go,” he said. “Go get in your harness, Stonor.”
The trooper arose and slouched to the tracking-line with a hang-dog air. Clare’s eyes followed him in well-assumed indignation at his supineness.
“He’ll make a good pack-horse yet,” said Imbrie with a laugh.