The flush grew deeper in Harry's cheek, though he saw there was nothing ironical in the remark. "I scarcely hope so much," he replied. "I am learning that forgetfulness has its advantages."
As the door closed behind the visitor, Prendergast kicked the chair back to the table.
"You're getting on!" he sneered, his oily tone forgotten. "Damn his impertinence! He didn't offer to shake with me! Come on and play."
Harry opened the door again and sat down on the cool step, the violin in his hands.
"I think I don't care for the cards to-night," he said. "I'd rather play this."
CHAPTER XXII THE PASSING OF PRENDERGAST
The little town had been unconsciously grateful for its new sensation. The return of Hugh Stires and his apparent curious transformation was the prime subject of conversation. For a half-year the place had known but one other event as startling: that was the finding, some months before, of a dead body—that of a comparative stranger in the place—thrust beneath a thicket on Smoky Mountain, on the very claim which now held Prendergast and his partner.
The "Amen Corner" of the Mountain Valley House had discussed the pros and cons exhaustively. There were many who sneered at the loss of memory and took their cue from Devlin who, smarting from his humiliation and nursing venom, revamped suspicions wherever he showed his battered face. In his opinion Hugh Stires was "playing a slick game."