"He said he was going, he went in that direction," Moreton answered. "He was inquiring about you, and I told him you were in my care and quite safe." Reynolds laughed. "Did he say that his _weemin_, as he calls them, were uneasy about me?" "Something of the sort, I believe, but I gave him satisfactory assurance. He'll report you all right." Reynolds laughed again, a laugh that left Moreton in some sort of doubt. It was a laugh that seemed to be tinged with contempt, or bitterness, or some other element quite foreign to any amused or pleasant state of mind. "He told me in all seriousness," Moreton deliberately but lightly added, "that his daughter believed you would never come back." "Yes," said Reynolds, "she always imagines some such thing when I am away. She's a queer little simpleton, but I owe a good deal to her and her mother. On that account I overlook a great many little annoyances they cause me." They went in to supper and the conversation turned to a discussion of the preparations for General DeKay's shooting party. But all the time Moreton's mind kept returning to the mystery which he now felt was hovering about his friend's life, a mystery he dared not attempt to solve. It was plain to him that Reynolds had a secret which this lonely life in the mountains was intended to hide from the world. It is not difficult to discover that one's friend is not opening his whole heart to one, when such is the fact. The reserve of some heavy sorrow, or regret, or remorse may be carefully concealed, but its very concealment is disclosed by the sealed chamber whose door would, we know, be flung wide open, but for the skeleton within. A slight evasion, now and then, of certain careless questions, little hints inadvertently let fall in moments of apparent abstraction, certain abrupt changes of the drift of his talk when the subject was his own experiences, gave to Reynolds' conversation a quality which, to a nature like Moreton's, was as tantalizing as it was suggestive of some hidden trouble. CHAPTER V. SOME LIGHT TALK. Mr. Noble's house in Birmingham was one of our ugly brick-red American cottages, with many sharp points to its roof, many slender chimneys, a profusion of bay windows and plate glass, and an air of band-box newness, suggestive of fresh paint and scarcely dry plastering. It stood on a slight knoll overlooking a quiet part of the little city, and commanding a view of the mountains in every direction, as well as of the broken picturesque valley. Its ample lawn, shaded by a few native trees, had been set with grass, as if in defiance of Southern custom, and the broad walks were not flanked with the conventional parallel rows of shrubs and flowers so dear to the heart of the old-time Southerner.