THE BLACK FOX SKIN
Evans hesitated. "What's your game?" he asked.
Joe made a slight gesture of disclaimer.
Evans turned on his heel.
"Have it your way, but I'll be back with my warrant before sun up to-morrow, and I’m warden, and maybe you'll find it's better to have me for a friend than—"
"Huh! Say, Mr. Quaritch, have you a fill of that light baccy o' yours? I want soothin'."
As soon as Evans was out of sight, Joe beckoned me to a thick piece of scrub not far from the hut.
"Stay right here till I come back. Everything depends on that," he whispered.
I lay down at my ease in a sheltered spot, and then Joe also took the road for Lavette.
During the hours through which I waited for his return I must acknowledge I was at my wits' end to understand the situation. Everything appeared to be against Black, the cartridge which fitted his rifle, the strands of the telltale neckerchief, the man's own furious behaviour, his manifest passion for Mrs. Rone, and the suggested motive for the thefts—all these
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