"It wouldn't be safe for you to go, Hugh," said Pete gently.

"Why not--watchdog?"

The sneer deepened the flush on Pete's face, but he answered with
the same gentleness, fixing his blue eyes on his brother's.

"Because not two months ago there was a picture of you tacked up in
the post-office."

Bella's face whitened, and Hugh's cheeks grew a shade more leaden.
"T-two months ago!" he stammered painfully; "but that's not p-possible.
They--they've given me up. They've f-forgotten me. They th-think I'm
dead. After fifteen years? My God, Pete! Why didn't you tell me?"
He pleaded the last with a shaken sort of sharpness, in pitiful
contrast to the bombast of the preceding speech.

"I didn't see the good of telling you. I was waiting until this trip
to see if the picture was still there, and maybe to ask some
questions."

"What does it mean?" whispered Bella.

"It means they've some fresh reason to hunt me--some fresh impulse--God
knows what or why. How can we tell out here, buried in the snows of
fifteen winters. Well!" He struck his hands down on the table edge
and stood up. He drew his mouth into a crooked smile and looked at
the other two as a naughty child looks at its doting but disapproving
elders. The smile transfigured his ugliness. "I've a fancy to see that
picture. Want to be reminded of what I looked like fifteen years ago.