“What’s happened?”
“That’ll wait. I’m worried to pouch O’Hagan’s dollars quick. You go right along to the boys, as I said. Then the cache. I’ll get back.”
“Trouble?”
Pideau’s persistence drew a short laugh from the other.
“It’s the way you look at it,” he parried. “But you beat it down to the boys.”
He moved off even as he spoke. And Pideau watched him go. He watched him till the shadows swallowed him up. Then he turned to carry out orders.
The cavern was almost brilliantly lit. Three lanterns were shining, where before only one had sought to dispel the shadows. The Wolf and Pideau were standing together. They were gazing down at the sprawled body of Ernest Sinclair.
Both were silent. Each was preoccupied with such thoughts as the ugly sight of the dead man inspired. But whatever their emotions there was no outward display. None at all.
The Wolf was lost in profound thought. The curious smile which Nature had stamped about his fine eyes gave the impression of amused, even derisive speculation. But nothing could have been further from his mood. It was just the natural mask he could not remove.