the stranger's wine glass, nearly spilling the contents
into Holcomb's lap, and which Holcomb's deft touch righted with
the quickness of a squirrel, before a drop left its edge, a feat of
dexterity which brought from the actor in his best stage voice:

"Zounds, sir! A little more and I should have deluged you"--Holcomb
answering with a smile:

"Don't mention it. I saw it coming my way."

Even those at the adjoining tables caught the dominating influence of
the man as they watched him sitting easily in his chair listening
to the stories of the Emperor of the First Empire--as Brompton was
called, he having played the part--the young woodsman joining in with
experiences of his own as refreshing in tone and as clear in statement
as a mountain spring.

Suddenly, and apparently without anything leading up to it, and as if
some haunting memory of his own had prompted it, Thayor leaned forward
and touched Billy's arm, and with a certain meaning in his voice
asked:

"There is something I have wanted to ask you ever since I came,
Holcomb. Tell me about that poor hide-out--the man your father fed in
the woods that night. Did he get away?"

Holcomb straightened up and his face became suddenly grave. The
subject was evidently a distasteful one.

"Whom do you mean, Mr. Thayor?"

"I don't know his name; I only remember the incident, but it has
haunted me ever since."

"You mean Dinsmore."

"What has become of him?"

"I haven't heard lately." He evidently did not want to discuss it
further--certainly not in a crowded room full of strangers.

"But you must have learned something of him. Tell me--I want to know.
I never felt so sorry for anyone in my life."

Holcomb looked Thayor squarely in the face, read its sincerity and
said slowly, lowering his voice:

"He is still in hiding--was the last time I saw him."

"When was that?" asked Thayor, his eyes boring into the young
woodsman's.

"About a month ago--Ed Munsey and I were cutting a trail at the time."

"Would you mind telling me?" persisted Thayor. "I have always thought
that poor fellow was ill treated. Your father thought so too."

Holcomb dropped his eyes to the cloth, rolled a crumb of bread between
his fingers and said, as if he was thinking aloud:

"Ill treated! I should say so!" Then he lifted his head, drew his
chair closer to the group, ran his eyes around the room to be sure of
his audience, and said in still lower tones:

"What I'm going to tell y