"Not exactly kicked," Smythe explained. "But I'd rather have been. He was as polite as--he's a gentleman, you see, so he knew how to do it without using his hands or his feet." "But why?" insisted Marion. "Why did I try? Curiosity. Simple, elemental, irresponsible curiosity." She laughed again at his frank confession. "No, I mean why did he kick you out, as you call it?" "That's what I want to know. And I will know, too. I tell you, Miss Gaylord, I admire the man immensely. His secretiveness only makes me like him the more, probably because I myself am so garrulous. Most persons, though, cannot tolerate a man who minds his own business. Those who have no reason to hate Haig dislike him because he does not ask them to like him. His affairs are his own. Did you notice that scar?" "Yes," answered Marion, scarcely above a whisper. "Well, you can build any sort of romance you like around that. He has had his romance or tragedy or something, you may be sure. But he's no ordinary man, whatever he may be doing in Paradise Park. I have heard that he's surrounded with books and pictures in his cottage. He's got a Chinaman for a valet, and an Indian for his man Friday, and their mouths are as tight as his. What's more, he must be all right in the main things, for his foreman and cowboys stick to him through thick and thin, and say nothing. I tell you, Miss Gaylord, I'd like to be a friend of his, if only he gave a--" "A damn, I believe they say," she prompted demurely. "By Jove!" he said with enthusiasm. "You are a--" She held up a warning finger. "We're going to be friends, you know," she said. "And friends understand each other--without words." "Done!" he agreed, reaching for her hand, and shaking it. "But this mystery," she said. "Doesn't anybody know--" "You know as much as all of us. Of course," he added banteringly, "there's no denying a woman, when she starts. He might tell you!" The speech startled her, and she blushed. "Now, that's sheer impudence!" she retorted. But he continued to look at her with a curious expression. How much had he guessed? In her confusion an impulse seized her. She leaned suddenly toward him, with flushed face and sparkling eyes. "You dare me?" she demanded, her voice quivering. "I dare you!" he answered gleefully. "Well then, he shall tell me!" "Good!" he exclaimed. "And I'll be around to take the kicks if he--" "Oh, Cousin Seth!" cried Marion, leaping to her feet. The bedroom door had opened, and Huntington came out, dressed in his familiar corduroy suit, but with his left arm still bandaged to his side, Smythe hastened forward to greet him. CHAPTER VI THE STORY OF THE SCAR