He half-snatched it and read the notes in Tempest's clear writing below the "Memorandum. Royal North-West Mounted Police Force. Form No. ."
"I never saw this before," he said weakly. "I never saw this before."
"What is it?" Ducane took it and read it. Then he sprang up with a gasp. Deadly fear had caught him, making him cringe at the far-off threat.
"They're after us," he cried. "Lord They're after us. They know what we're at."
There was sweat on his face. He brought a bottle and glasses to the table, poured himself a stiff nip, and dropped back in his chair, holding his glass with a shaking hand. Robison was watching in the impenetrable gravity of an elephant. Fear was a thing outside his understanding.
"Everyone knows Ras Taylor took scrip last year an' sold to me this," he said. "Don't make such a row."
"They wouldn't have noted it unless they were going to do something, would they? By , perhaps they've got the whole thing already. I shall clear out. I can't stand this. They'll get me, the brutes. They'll get me."
Robison's elemental brain felt dimly that he was rather more ignored than courtesy demanded.
"And where do I come in?" he demanded. "I reckon I'm as near caught as you, any day. But I reckon I can lie my way out of it so far. An' so must you."
His little red eyes were sharp on Ducane. It did not occur to him that any man could baulk over the telling of lies, for he did not know that this is one of the limitations which usually goes with the honour of being born a gentleman.
"It won't come to that. If this damned Heriot was spiked"
Ducane halted suddenly, thinking of Jennifer. His face lightened a little, and he sat still. Robison heaved himself up, standing with great arms hanging, more like an ape than ever.
"We'll go on as we've gone," he said. "I'm not goin' out of this game till I have to run for it. There's money in it, all right."
