“But—but it’s turrible infectious,” said the woman, at a loss.
“Oh, but I don’t think a drop of hot water fer our cawfee’d matter much.”
The woman made a decision. “Here, throw up yer can with the cawfee in it, I’ll give you that water.” She caught the can deftly. “But you stay there. Don’t you take no risk. I has to notify any risk of infec’ion.” She turned and went swiftly into the shack.
Clement and Gatineau were out of the skiff and up the bank in a flash.
V
The woman turned from the stove with a half-cry of fear as their boots clumped on the boards of the shack. She dropped the coffee can with a crash, and her lips clenched tight together as she saw the weapons in their hands. There was something significant in that sudden gesture of silence; she had seen pistols in men’s hands before—in the hands of men who shot regardless of sex.
Clement felt pity for her and the life she must have led. “We mean no harm, Mrs. Wandersun. Only you must keep quiet——”
“And not move,” added Gatineau. “Stand over in that corner there, Mrs. Wandersun—yes, in the angle of the walls. Now understand, no movement, no sound.”
They looked about the room quickly. It was a bare room, with a table and stove, and one window, next the door, looking on to the porch. There was a door into an inner room. Gatineau sprang across to it and looked in. It had a bed and a glassless window and very little else. The window was shut, the bed had evidently been used by the woman. Gatineau came out of the room, shutting the door. There was no need to go into that room. What they wanted was in this outer, living room.
In a corner was a truckle bed. On that bed was a man, his deeply-marked face pale and unshaven. He looked sick, and he stirred gently and moaned like a sick man, not opening his eyes to them. Gatineau gave him one look, then went and stood by the window, which was just by the foot of the bed. Crouching against the woodwork, the little detective watched the world outside, his pistol ready.