Weston removed the cigar from his mouth, and looked curiously at his visitor.
"Were you not sure?" he queried.
"Not at all," and Reynolds laughed. "I was not sure last night, though
I am now."
A sudden cloud overspread Weston's face, which, passed away, however, almost instantly.
"I wish I had known this sooner, young man. You would not have got off so easily, let me tell you that. I was positive that you understood everything. But tell me, what led you to suspect the truth about Curly?"
"That you had not burned him alive?"
"Yes."
Reynolds deliberately removed the band from his cigar, and laid it carefully in the ash-tray. He was enjoying Weston's perplexity, which he believed was a new experience for this autocrat of Glen West. What a story he would have to tell his old friend Harmon. The editor would surely forgive him for going on what he called "a wild-goose chase," instead of searching for the missing Henry Redmond. What a write-up all this would make for his paper.
"Did you hear what I said?" Weston's voice was somewhat impatient.
"I beg your pardon," Reynolds apologized. "My mind was wool-gathering.
You asked what led me to suspect the truth about Curly, did you not?"