Fyles gathered up his reins.
“Just one word,” he said coldly. “I hate a traitor worse than poison, but I’m paid to get these people. So my word goes, if your story’s true. If it isn’t—well, take my advice and get out quick, or—you won’t have time.”
Before the half-breed had time to reply Peter threw up his head, and set off at the touch of his master’s spurs.
CHAPTER XXXIII
PLAYING THE GAME
For some moments the two men faced each other in a sort of grim silence. It was already daylight. Sunday morning was breaking under a cloudless sky.
At last McBain rose from his seat at the deal table which served him for a desk. He reached out and turned out the lamp. Its light was no longer needed. Then he stretched himself and yawned.
“Had enough of it?” inquired Fyles, catching the infection and stifling a yawn.
“Just what you might notice, sir.” A shadowy smile played about the Scot’s hard mouth, but it was gone in a moment.