Cordwood snapped noisily in the rusty stove at Whitewood jail. A tin lamp hung from a beam and the light touched the jailer’s lined face. He studied his cards and pondered; Bob rested his arms on the table and looked moodily about.
Streaks of resin marked the cracks in the logs and black drops fell from the joint where the stovepipe went through the room. The floor was rough, split lumber, and a rude bunk occupied a wall. But for the bars across the window, the house was very much a standard pattern bushman’s house, and in some respects Bob admitted he had no grounds to grumble.
He had received Helen’s letter narrating the barkeeper’s confession and he imagined the statement would satisfy the police, but he did not yet know what they meant to do about it. The suspense bothered him, becau
