“How about Eliza Peyton--or Madame Koller--whom you followed here?” Pembroke had lighted a cigar since they began talking, and had disposed of himself comfortably on the pine needles by the side of his friend. The silence was the unbroken silence of the autumn woods. There was not the faintest whisper of wind, but over their heads the solemn trees leaned together and rustled softly. A long pause came after Cave’s question. Into Pembroke’s sunburnt face a dark flush slowly mounted. It is not often that a man of his type, with his iron jaw and strong features, blushes--but this was a blush of consciousness, though not of shame. “I did not follow her here,” he said. “But who believes me? I think the woman herself fancies I did follow her. As for that little haughty Olivia Berkeley, the girl gives me a look that is equivalent to a box on the ear every time Madame Koller is mentioned. If ever I marry, I shan’t take a woman of spirit, you may depend upon it. I shall take a placid, stout creature. An eaglet like Olivia Berkeley is well enough for a man to amuse himself with--but for steady matrimony give me a barnyard fowl.” “God help you,” answered Cave piously. “But what really brought me here--although I knew all the time that I ought not to be loitering in Europe, and would probably have come anyhow--was this poor devil, Bob Henry, in jail, charged with murdering Hackett, that scalawag the Hibbses brought here.” At this Cave sat up, full of animation. “I can help the poor fellow, I think,” he said. “I went to see him as soon as they put him in jail--a wretched looking object in rags he was, too. He seemed to put great faith in you, and I did not tell him of some evidence that I have got hold of. The fellow’s going to get clear between us, I think.” Pembroke sat up too, and took the cigar out of his mouth. The lawyer’s instinct rose within him, and he took to his profession like a pointer to his field work. “You see, having been away during Hackett’s time, I know nothing of his habits or associations except from hearsay. Any lawyer in the county could do better for poor Bob Henry than I--in that way.” “Hackett, you know, was a Northern man, who came down here and bought property during the war. He was a rabid Southerner. I distrusted the man for that alone. He was related to our friends, the Hibbses. I always suspected he had something to do with that gang of deserters down by the river, and if he was not a spy, then John Cave is a fool.” “Well--what else?” “Of course you know about Bob Henry’s buying the land of him, and the money he owed him, and the fight. The negro, after Hackett had struck him and insulted his wife, struck him back with a stick. Now the Hibbses, and everybody else for that matter, think that blow killed him. You see, among the people Hackett had a kind of false popularity, as a Northern man who has espoused Southern sentiments--a hypocrite, in short. The feeling against that poor black wretch was savage.”