"Have you talked to Michael about it?"
"To tell you the truth, Sophie," Potch replied slowly, conscience-stricken that he had given the subject so little consideration, "I took it for granted there could only be one answer to the whole thing.... I haven't thought of it. I've only thought of you the last week or so. I haven't talked to Michael; I haven't even heard what the men were saying at midday.... But, of course, there's only one answer."
"I've tried to talk to Michael, but he won't discuss it with me," Sophie said.
Potch stared at her.
"You don't mean," he said—"you can't think—"
"Oh," she cried, with a gesture of desperation, "I know John Armitage is holding something over Michael ... and if it's true what he says, it'll break Michael, and it'll go very badly against the Ridge."
"You can't tell me what it is?"
Sophie shook her head.
Potch got up; his face settled into grave and fighting lines. Sophie, too, rose from the ground. They went towards the track where the three huts stood facing the scattered dumps of the old Flash-in-the-Pan rush.
"I want to see Michael," Potch said, when they approached the huts. "I'll be in, in a couple of minutes."