“No,” he said. Then he added, “And if there were no whisky-running there’d be no village here. If there were no village here we shouldn’t be here. Kate and her sister wouldn’t be here. Nothing would be here, but the old pine—that goes on forever. This village lives on the prohibition law. Fyles may have a reputation, but he’s clumsy—damned clumsy. I’d like to see ahead—the next few days.”
“He’s smelling a cargo—coming in, isn’t he?” Bill’s tact was holding him tight.
Again Charlie looked at him curiously before he replied.
“That’s how they reckon,” he said guardedly, at last.
Bill had turned away, vainly searching his unready wit for the best means of carrying on the discussion. Suddenly his eyes lit, and he pointed across at the Seton’s house.
“Say, who’s that—on that horse? Isn’t it Fyles? He’s talking to some one. Looks like——”
He broke off. Charlie was staring out in the direction indicated, and, in a moment, his excitement passed, swallowed up in a frowning, brooding light that had suddenly taken possession of his dark eyes.
Bill finally broke the uncomfortable silence.
“Yes, it’s Fyles,” said Charlie, with a sudden suppressed fury. “It’s Fyles—curse him, and he’s talking to—Kate.”