“True enough. I shall see Paul.”
Paul’s answer when the missionary broached the subject was a prompt and decisive negative.
“She is not to be worried. Let the policeman talk to me if he wishes, but he is not to see her. She has for six years been haunted by a dread of the police. Her whole tribe have covered the trail all this time. Let her go in peace. Let him talk to me.”
The following morning it was that the sergeant, sauntering about the Post, came to the hut placed by the factor at the disposal of the Indian woman and her family. He was met at the door by Paul, who immediately stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
“You can’t come in,” he said, facing the sergeant.
“No?”
“No!”
“It would be good that I should see the sick woman,” said the sergeant in a courteous voice.
“You will not see her,” said the youth. The sergeant noted, as it was his business to note, the glitter as of steel in the blue grey eye, the lips thin to a line, the muscles stiffen as for a spring.
“Steady, young man,” he said in a quiet voice. “Don’t do anything rash. I don’t want to hurt her or you. But I must interview her.”