"I haven't heard lately." He evidently did not want to discuss it
further--certainly not in a crowded room full of strangers.

"But you must have learned something of him. Tell me--I want to know.
I never felt so sorry for anyone in my life."

Holcomb looked Thayor squarely in the face, read its sincerity and
said slowly, lowering his voice:

"He is still in hiding--was the last time I saw him."

"When was that?" asked Thayor, his eyes boring into the young
woodsman's.

"About a month ago--Ed Munsey and I were cutting a trail at the time."

"Would you mind telling me?" persisted Thayor. "I have always thought
that poor fellow was ill treated. Your father thought so too."

Holcomb dropped his eyes to the cloth, rolled a crumb of bread between
his fingers and said, as if he was thinking aloud:

"Ill treated! I should say so!" Then he lifted his head, drew his
chair closer to the group, ran his eyes around the room to be sure of
his audience, and said in still lower tones:

"What I'm going to tell you, gentlemen, is between us, remember. None
of you, I am sure, would want to get him into any more trouble, if you
knew the circumstances as I do. One night about nine o'clock, during a
pouring rain, Ed and I lay in a swamp under a lean-to. Ed was asleep,