“You don't say! That _was_ a slice.” Bishop drew himself up in his chair and inhaled a deep breath. It was as if he took into himself in that way the courage to make his next remark. “I got it from the Tompkins estate.” “You don't say. I didn't know they had that much on hand.” There was a certain skill displayed in the lawyer's choice of questions and observations that somehow held him aloof from the unlettered man, and there was, too, something in his easy, bland manner that defied the open charge of underhand dealing, and yet Bishop had not paid out his railroad fare for nothing. He was not going back to his home-circle no wiser than when he left it. His next remark surprised himself; it was bluntness hardened by despair. “Sence I bought the land I've accidentally heerd that you are some kin o' that family.” Perkins started slightly and raised his brows. “Oh yes; on my wife's side, away off, some way or other. I believe the original Tompkins that settled there from Virginia was my wife's grandfather. I never was much of a hand to go into such matters.” The wily lawyer had erected as strong a verbal fence as was possible on such short notice, and for a moment it looked as if Bishop's frankness would not attempt to surmount it; but it did, in a fashion. “When I heerd that, Perkins, it was natural fer me to wonder why you, you see--why you didn't tell _them_ about the railroad.” The sallow features of the lawyer seemed to stiffen. He drew himself up coldly and a wicked expression flashed in his eyes. “Take my advice, old man,” he snarled, as he threw down his pen and stared doggedly into Bishop's face, “stick to your farming and don't waste your time asking a professional lawyer questions which have no bearing on your business whatever. Now, really, do I have to explain to you my personal reasons for not favoring the Tompkins people with a--I may say--any piece of information?” Bishop was now as white as death; his worst suspicions were confirmed; he was a ruined man; there was no further doubt about that. Suddenly he felt unable to bridle the contemptuous fury that raged within him. “I think I know _why_ you didn't tell 'em,” was what he hurled at the lawyer. “You think you do.” “Yes, it was beca'se you knowed no road was goin' to be built. You told Pete Mosely the same tale you did me, an' Abe Tompkins unloaded on 'im. That's a way you have o' doin' business.” Perkins stood up. He took his silk hat from the top of his desk and put it on. “Oh yes, old man,” he sneered, “I'm a terribly dishonest fellow; but I've got company in this world. Now, really, the only thing that has worried me has been your unchristian act in buying all that land from the Tompkins heirs at such a low figure when the railroad will advance its value so greatly. Mr. Bishop, I thought you were a good Methodist.” “Oh, you kin laugh an' jeer all you like,” cried Bishop, “but I can handle you fer this.”