The flare of conviction in her eyes, followed by bitterness and hatred, told him the scent was warm.
“Why didn't you bring in a supply of fresh potatoes on the steamer?” he asked.
“We did. But coming up the river we sold them all out at a bargain at Fort Yukon. We had plenty of the evaporated kinds, and we knew they'd keep better. They wouldn't even freeze.”
Smoke groaned. “And you sold them all?” he asked.
“Yes. How were we to know?”
“Now mightn't there have been a couple of odd sacks left?—accidentally, you know, mislaid on the steamer?”
She shook her head, as he thought, a trifle belatedly, then added, “We never found any.”
“But mightn't there?” he persisted.
“How do I know?” she rasped angrily. “I didn't have charge of the commissary.”
“And Amos Wentworth did,” he jumped to the conclusion. “Very good. Now what is your private opinion—just between us two. Do you think Wentworth has any raw potatoes stored away somewhere?”