"And that reminds me," said Bernard, "that you spoke of Cincinnati and that you came south from there, a bit over a year ago. I, then, left there after you did."
"Indeed," said Wyeth in surprise.
"Yes, I have been down here a little over a year only. I was reared in this same parish many years ago, and, since then, I always had a longing to come back and stay again until I got tired of it." He made himself comfortable as he drew away on a long pipe; while Wyeth, observing him, waited for the story he had to tell.
"Yes, I used to live in Cincinnati—in fact, I guess that is what I might call home, if not this."
"This is news to me," said Wyeth.
The other smiled languidly, and went on:
"I used to live on Walnut Hill, and was employed by Stephen Myer, a wealthy retired merchant, who not only was well-to-do in Cinci', but owned a number of interests in the south, in fact, he came to Cincinnati from the south not so long before, and never went back again, for he died.
"I was his valet for years. Got acquainted with him right here in this parish one winter, when he was staying at the hotel over there, and it was the second winter when he hired me and took me north with him.
"Stephen Myer was a good man at heart, but a sport until he died, and certainly believed in a good time with the women. He loved his family, but he would run around, which recalls his death whenever I think of it.
"He came back from the south about three years ago I think, and it was not long until I knew he was keeping a girl he had brought with him. I paid the matter no attention, because he always had somebody before; but strange to say, after that he had no other. It was kept very quiet and I knew nothing of it,—that is, from him, until the night he died. That took place while we were at a hotel in Detroit. His death was due to heart failure, but it didn't take him as it does most of its victims. He was conscious that he was going to die, although he was, to all appearances, well.