Bill sat swinging one leg thoughtfully. A sort of bewilderment was getting hold of him.
“You didn’t recognize my voice?” he asked. Then he added thoughtfully, “No—and it might have been Fyles, or the other policemen. They were there.”
Charlie suddenly sat up. His hands were grasping the arms of the rocker.
“The police were there—with you?” he demanded. “What—what were they doing there—with you?”
The sharp questions, flung at him so quickly, so soberly, suddenly lifted Bill out of his vain and moody regrets.
In spite of all Kate had told him, in spite of her assurance that Fyles, and all the valley, believed Charlie to be the head of the smuggling gang, the full significance of Fyles’s presence in the neighborhood of the pine had not penetrated to his slow understanding before. Now an added light was thrown upon the matter in a flash of greater understanding. Fyles was not watching any chance crook. He was watching Charlie, and he knew it was Charlie, and the assurance of Charlie’s identity extracted from him, Bill, had been a simple blind. What a fool he had made of himself. Kate was right. The harm he had done now became appalling.
He promptly became absorbed in a strongly restrained excitement. He leaned forward and talked rapidly. He had forgotten Charlie’s condition, he had forgotten everything but the danger threatening.
“Here, Charlie,” he cried, “I’ll tell you just all that happened after I left here, when you went out. Guess it’s a long yarn, but I think you need to know it for your own safety.”
Charlie leaned back in his chair and nodded.
“Go ahead,” he said. Then he closed his eyes as Bill rushed into his narrative.