"Yes, he's nice."
"You shot him?" asked Stormont.
"Who else do you suppose shot him?" she enquired, smilingly. She rinsed her fingers again and stood up, swinging her arms to dry her hands, — a lithe, grey-shirted figure in her boyish garments, straight, supple, and strong.
"I saw you hurrying into the woods," said Stormont.
"Yes, I was in a hurry. We need meat."
"I didn't notice that you carried a rifle when I saw you leave the house — by the back door."
"No; it was in the woods," she said indifferently.
"You have a hiding place for your rifle?"
"For other things, also," she said, letting her eyes of gentian-blue rest on the young man.
"You seem to be very secretive."