"In the kitchen talking to some man." The physician put down his empty coffee cup and filled it again from the silver pot which Pablo had thoughtfully left on the table, with the sugar and cream. "He'll be back shortly, I imagine; come and sit down," and with his foot he pushed around a chair, similar in size to the one he occupied. Instead of complying with his invitation, Alan walked moodily about the room, which ran the length of the bungalow. Its ceiling was oak-beamed and the windows diamond-paned, and its air of comfort was enhanced by the good taste evidenced in its furnishing. It was typically a man's room, filled with hunting trophies, smoking paraphernalia, shotgun and rifle, fishing rods and tackle and curious weapons of a bygone age and other climes. Mahogany bookshelves lined one wall and Alan stopped and read the titles of some of the editions. "Scott, Thackeray, Darwin, Spencer, Dickens, Wells, _et cetera_," he announced, running his finger along the books. "And blame me, if they don't look as if he'd read 'em." Roberts turned his head to observe what Alan was doing. "Trenholm is one of the best informed men in the country," he remarked dryly. "He is well read and has a brilliant mind." "And lives in this God-forsaken part of the country!" Alan shrugged his shoulders. "There is no accounting for taste." "Quite so!" Roberts laughed. "But if my memory serves me right, Alan, you are indigenous to the soil." "Sure, but my parents had the good sense to move to Washington soon after I was born," retorted Alan. "We spent only our summers here until Cousin Paul Abbott bought the old place in a land deal." "Oh, so Abbott's Lodge is your ancestral homestead?" Alan nodded. "With many alterations and additions," he said. "I'd never have known the house when I first went to stay with Paul just before the War. We were at Lawrenceville together, you know, and then at Princeton." Alan sighed. "The War changed him a lot," he added wistfully. "He was a dandy pal--so much pep and devil-may-care spirit about him." "When was he shell-shocked?" "Toward the last." Alan changed the subject with marked abruptness. "Say, Doctor," he sat down and his voice dropped to a confidential pitch. "Trenholm does himself mighty well--this most attractive bungalow, a model farm, and a servant whose cooking is absolutely faultless. Where does he get the money?" "His salary--" Alan laughed mirthlessly. "It wouldn't much more than pay Pablo's wages," he said. "It takes real money to keep up a place like this." Roberts lighted a cigar, first offering one to Alan, which the latter accepted, with a word of thanks. "I heard some time ago that a rich relation--one of the Trenholms of South Carolina--died and left Guy a handsome legacy, which he has augmented by careful investments," he explained. "Oh!" Alan was having some difficulty in lighting his cigar. "Who told you that--Trenholm?"