"Nobody knows that better than I do," Mostyn said, a sickly smile
playing over his wan face, "and I'm in the mood for it. I feel as a
man feels who has just escaped the gallows. I'm going to the
mountains, and I don't intend to open a business letter or think once
of this hot hole in a wall for a month. I'm going to fish and hunt and
lie in the shade and swap yarns with mossback moonshiners. I've just
been thinking of it, and it's like a soothing dream of peace and
quiet. You know old Tom Drake's place near your farm? I boarded there
two weeks three years ago and loved every cat and dog about. Tom told
me to come any time I felt like it."

"No better place anywhere," Saunders said. "I shall run up home now
and then, and can see you and report, but you needn't bother about us;
we'll keep this thing afloat. I'm wondering how you are going to get
away from your social duties. They usually claim you at this time of
the year. Old Mitchell and his daughter will certainly miss you."

Mostyn stared at his friend steadily. "They are off for Atlantic City
Monday. They hinted at my joining them, but I declined. I was worried
at the time over this deal, but I need something quieter than that
sort of trip. You are always coupling my name with Miss Irene's. I'm
not the favorite in that quarter that you make me out."

"I have eyes and ears and _some_ experience in human nature." Saunders
puffed at his cigar. He felt that his friend was expecting what he was
saying. "Mitchell is getting in his dotage, and he talks very freely
to me at times."

"Surely not about--about me and Irene?" Mostyn said, a ripple of
interest in his tone.