Sally and Joe turned around. It was Izon, dark, handsome, fiery, muffled up to his neck, his hat drawn low on his face, and the thin snow scattering from his shoulders and sleeves.
"Yes, I'm here," Joe said in a low voice. "What is it?"
Izon came over.
"Joe!"—his voice was passionate—"there's trouble brewing at Marrin's."
"Marrin? Why, he was here only to-day!"
Izon clutched the back of a chair and leaned over.
"Marrin is a dirty scoundrel!"
His voice was hoarse with helplessness and passion.
Joe rose.
"Tell me about this! Put it in a word!"