McFardell glanced out over his clearing. His machinery held his gaze.
“I’ve heard about his shipments in Hartspool,” he said meditatively.
“You’d need to be deaf if you ain’t.”
“Yes. What then?”
McFardell’s eyes were levelled on the other’s, with a searching half-smile. Lightning sustained the regard with superlative blandness.
“It’s police work,” he said meaningly.
“I’m no longer a policeman. I’m a farmer—like you.”
“You quit ’em—yes.”
“I was—‘fired.’”
“That don’t cut any ice. You know the play.”