“You say,” said Pole, “that Henry A. Floyd came into his plantation at his daddy's death?” “That's my impression, Pole.” The mountaineer went to the cuspidor near the washstand and spat deliberately into it; then he came back wiping his lips on his long hand. “An' when the old man died he jest had two sons--yore daddy an' this one here?” Pole said, tentatively, his heavy brows drawn together. “Yes, that's right, Pole.” “Well, Nelson”--the mountaineer was staring steadily at his friend--“I make a rule never to judge a person too quick, but whar I see a motive fer evil in a man that ain't plumb straight, I generally find some'n' crooked.” “I'm sure I don't understand you, Pole,” Floyd said, his eyes wide in curiosity. Pole stepped near to Floyd and laid his hand on his arm. “Do you mean to tell me, as keen and sharp as you are, that you tuck that old skunk's word about a matter as important as that is, when he come into property from yore granddaddy--property that 'ud be part yore'n as his brother's son? Shucks! I'm jest a mountain scrub, but I ain't as big a fool as that. “Oh, I know!” said Floyd, wearily. “I suppose you are right, but I don't care to go to law about a little handful of property like that; besides, you know it would be my interest _only_ in case I was a _lawful_ heir--don't forget that damnable fact, Pole.” “I'm not thinkin' about the value of property, nuther,” said Baker; “but, my boy, I am lookin' fer a _motive_--a motive fer rascality, an' I think I've found one as big as a barn. I don't any more believe that dirty tale old Floyd told you than I'd believe it about my old saint of a mother.” “But you don't know what he showed me, Pole,” Floyd sighed. “I never had the heart to go over it thoroughly, but it was conclusive enough to draw a black curtain over my whole life.” “I don't care, Nelson,” Pole said, warmly. “I don't give a damn what he said, or showed you. Thar's a big, rotten stench in Denmark, I'm here to tell you; an' ef I don't squeeze the truth out o' that old turnip before night I'll eat my hat. You go on an' git yore breakfast, an' let me map out--” There was rap on the door. Floyd opened it. A negro porter in uniform stood on the threshold. “A man down-stairs wants to see you, Mr. Floyd,” he announced. “Did he give his name?” Nelson asked. “No, sir, he didn't.” “He's an old, white-headed, dingy-faced fellow, ain't he?” Pole put in. “Yes, sir,” answered the servant. “He looks like he's sick.”