Jacky became serious. She rose and turned to the window, which commanded a perfect view of the distant peaks of the Rockies, towering high above the broad, level expanse of the great muskeg. With her back still turned to him she fired an abrupt question.
"Say, Bill, guess 'Pickles' has some other reason for this mad scheme. What is it? You can't tell me he's going just for love of the adventure of the thing. Now, let's hear the truth."
Unobserved by the girl, her companion shrugged his shoulders.
"If you want his reason you'd better ask him, Jacky. I can only surmise."
"So can I." Jacky turned sharply. "I'll tell you why he's going, Bill, and you can bet your last cent I'm right. Lablache is at the bottom of it. He's at the bottom of everything that causes people to leave Foss River. He's a blood-sucker."
Bunning-Ford nodded. He was rarely expansive. Moreover, he knew he could add nothing to what the girl had said. She expressed his sentiments fully. There was a pause. Jacky was keenly eyeing the tall thin figure at the stove.
"Why did you come to tell me of this?" she asked at last.
"Thought you'd like to know. You like 'Pickles.'"
"Yes—Bill, you are thinking of going with him."
Her companion laughed uneasily. This girl was very keen.