Her brooding eyes were still fixed upon him. “You actually are the agent,” she mused. “That’s quaint.”
“I don’t see anything quaint about it. Now, if you’ll make yourself comfortable I’ll go over to the shack and rustle something for breakfast.”
“No; I’d rather go with you. Perhaps I can help.”
Such help as the guest afforded was negligible. When, from sundry of the Sears-Roebuck cans and bottles, a condensed and preserved sort of meal had been derived, she set to it with a good grace.
“There’s more of a kick in tea than in a cocktail, I believe, when you really need it,” she remarked gratefully. “You spoke of a Mr. Gardner. Who is he?”
“A reporter who spent night before last here.”
She dropped her cracker, oleomargarine-side down. “A reporter?”
“He came down to write up the wreck. It’s a bad one. Nine dead, so far.”
“Is he still here?”
“No. Gone back to Angelica City.”