"Yes, and that young chap beside him, the pale, handsome one, that's his son."
"Whose son?"
"The tall man's son; Frank Lamotte's his name."
"You don't say; good-looking duffer! Found the assassin?"
"Not exactly, but they say—"
"Look here, pard, this sniffs of romance; now I'm gone on romance in real life; just let's step back among these cedars, and out of the crowd, where I can give you a pull at my brandy flask, and you can tell me all the particulars."
And the jaunty young man tapped his breast suggestively and winked knowingly down at his new found friend.
"Agreed," said the man, eagerly, and turning at once toward the nearest clump of trees.
"I may as well say that my name is Smith," said the stranger, as he passed over his brandy flask. "Now then, pard, fire ahead, and don't forget when you get thirsty to notify Smith, the book peddler."
The man began his story, and the book peddler stood with ear attentive to the tale, and eye fixed upon Jasper Lamotte.