“No. Mr. Merrick’s with me.”
“Where?”
“At the top of the hill. He broke a ski.”
“Where’s Don?”
“Gone to meet him. They’ll be here in a minute.”
A cunning, impish grin broke the lines of the man’s leathery face. He remembered that he had come prepared to be surprised to hear of Hollister’s wound. “Nurse who?” he asked suavely.
“Mr. Hollister, the engineer driving the tunnel.”
“Sick, is he?” He scarcely took the trouble to veil his rancorous malice. It rode him, voice, manner, and mocking eye. His mouth was a thin straight line, horribly cruel.
“Some one shot him—last night—through the window.” She knew now that he had done it or had had it done. The sense of outrage, of horror at his unhuman callousness, drove the fear out of her bosom. Her eyes accused him, though her tongue made no charge.
“Shot him, by jiminy by jinks! Why, Daniels had ought to put the fellow in the calaboose. Who did it?”