"Don't mention it. I saw it coming my way."

Even those at the adjoining tables caught the dominating influence of
the man as they watched him sitting easily in his chair listening
to the stories of the Emperor of the First Empire--as Brompton was
called, he having played the part--the young woodsman joining in with
experiences of his own as refreshing in tone and as clear in statement
as a mountain spring.

Suddenly, and apparently without anything leading up to it, and as if
some haunting memory of his own had prompted it, Thayor leaned forward
and touched Billy's arm, and with a certain meaning in his voice
asked:

"There is something I have wanted to ask you ever since I came,
Holcomb. Tell me about that poor hide-out--the man your father fed in
the woods that night. Did he get away?"

Holcomb straightened up and his face became suddenly grave. The
subject was evidently a distasteful one.

"Whom do you mean, Mr. Thayor?"

"I don't know his name; I only remember the incident, but it has
haunted me ever since."

"You mean Dinsmore."

"What has become of him?"