"A little of everything," replied Hugh. "I ran a bucket-shop with Moreau in Sacramento for a while. Then I went over in the mining country. I took up a claim at Smoky Mountain—that's worth something, or may be sometime."
"Why did you leave it?"
Hugh touched his parched lips with his tongue—again that nervous, sidelong look, that fearful glance over his shoulder.
"I had no money to work it. I had to live. Besides, I'm tired of the whole thing."
The backward glance, the look of dread, were tangible tokens. Harry translated them:
"You are not telling the truth," he said shortly. "What have you done?"
Hugh flinched, but he made sullen answer: "Nothing. What should I have done?"
"That is what I am now inquiring of myself," said Harry. "Your face is a book for any one to read. I see things written on it, Hugh—things that tell a story of wrong-doing. You are afraid."
Hugh shivered under the regard. Did his face really tell so much?