"The fellow must be an arrant scoundrel," declared the young man angrily. "No gentleman would subject an innocent girl to such—"
"All's well that ends well, as the feller says," interrupted Striker, arising from the table. "At least fer the present. She seemed sort of willin' to go home with her ma, so I guess her heart ain't everlastingly busted. I thought it was best to tell you all this, Mr. Gwynne, 'cause I got a sneakin' idee you're goin' to see a lot of that girl, an' maybe you'll turn out to be a source of help in time o' trouble to her."
"I fail to understand just what you mean, Striker. She is an absolute stranger to me."
"Well, we'll see what we shall see," said Striker, cryptically. He opened the kitchen door and called to Zachariah to hurry in and get his breakfast.
Half an hour later Kenneth and his servant mounted their horses in the barnyard and prepared to depart. The sun was shining and there was a taste and tang of spring in the breeze that flouted the faces of the horsemen.
"Follow this road back to the crossin' an' turn to your left," directed Striker, "an' 'fore you know it you'll be in Lay-flat, as they call it down in Crawfordsville. Remember, you're allus most welcome here. I reckon we'll see somethin' of each other as time goes on. It ain't difficult fer honest men to be friends as well as neighbours in this part of the world. I'm glad you happened my way last night."
He walked alongside Gwynne's stirrup as they moved down toward the road.
"Some day," said the young man, "I should like to have a long talk with you about my father. You knew him well and I—by the way, your love-lorn friend knew him also."
The other was silent for half a dozen paces, looking straight ahead.
"Yes," said he, with curious deliberation. "She was sayin' as how she told you a lot about him last night,—what sort of a man he was, an' all that."