“When was he shell-shocked?”
“Toward the last.” Alan changed the subject with marked abruptness. “Say, Doctor,” he sat down and his voice dropped to a confidential pitch. “Trenholm does himself mighty well—this most attractive bungalow, a model farm, and a servant whose cooking is absolutely faultless. Where does he get the money?”
“His salary—”
Alan laughed mirthlessly. “It wouldn’t much more than pay Pablo’s wages,” he said. “It takes real money to keep up a place like this.”
Roberts lighted a cigar, first offering one to Alan, which the latter accepted, with a word of thanks.
“I heard some time ago that a rich relation—one of the Trenholms of South Carolina—died and left Guy a handsome legacy, which he has augmented by careful investments,” he explained.
“Oh!” Alan was having some difficulty in lighting his cigar. “Who told you that—Trenholm?”
“I believe so. Why?” His question met with no response and Roberts eyed his companion in speculative silence.
Alan’s complexion was not a healthy color, the physician decided in his own mind, and the unsteadiness of his hand as he strove to hold a match to his cigar was not lost on Roberts. The older man’s expression grew thoughtful; Alan Mason had changed in the past few days and not for the best. Roberts had observed his tendency to go off alone for long walks, and his sudden bursts of talkativeness at the table and his equally abrupt lapses into long, sullen silence from which no one could arouse him.
It was in such a fit of depression that Roberts had encountered him when about to motor over to Trenholm’s for dinner, and he had persuaded Alan to accompany him after the latter had first called up Trenholm and received a hearty invitation to make one of the party. All through dinner Alan had chatted on first one topic and then another, the others seconding his efforts, but the three men with one accord avoided any reference to the tragedy at Abbott’s Lodge or to the funeral which had taken place that afternoon.