warned Weston of the plotting at the store to lay bare the secret of
his life; I should have brought the contending parties together and
enjoyed the duello. Instead, I had to admit to myself a curiosity as
to the stranger's identity that equalled, if it did not surpass, that
of Theophilus Jones. His was curiosity pure and simple; mine was
something more. Weston had come quietly into my own castle, had taken
complete possession of it for a moment, and then calmly walked away
with the fairest thing it held--and all so quietly and with an air that
in a thousand years of practice, I or none other in the valley could
have simulated. The picture was still sharp in my mind as I sat there
smoking and drawing Tim out; for when I had vented my anger on my pipe
that morning I had hurried to the gate to watch my departing visitors
as they swung down the village street. Weston, lanky and erect, moved
with a masterful stride, not unlike the lean and keen-witted setter
that flashed to and fro over the road before him. At his side was the
girl, a slender body in drab, tossing her hat gayly about at the end of
its long string. They passed the store and the mill, and at the bend
were lost to my view. They seemed to find themselves such good
company! Even Tim, so fine and big, had in this homely, lanky man a
rival well worth watching.

And who was the quiet, lanky man? Over and over I asked myself the
question, and when I touched its every phase I found that Henry Holmes
or Isaac Bolum, some one of the store worthies, had met defeat there
before me. At last I gave up, and by a sudden thought arose and pulled
on my overcoat, and got my hat. Tim was surprised.

"You are not going out?" he said.

"I think I'll stroll down to the tavern and see this stranger," I