brother," he said, "tumbled out of the saddle some days ago. It is said his horse fell."
My courage flared. "Do you know how the Black Abbot came to fall?" I answered.
"An awkward rider, little Quiller," he said. "Is it a good guess?"
"You know all about it," I began, breaking out in my childish anger. "You know how that furrow as long as a man's finger got on the Black Abbot's right knee. You know—" I stopped suddenly. Cynthia's eyes were resting on me, and there was something in their grey depths that made me stop.
But Woodford went on. "My great aunt," he said, "was thrown day before yesterday, but she did not take to her bed over it. How is your brother?"
"Able to take care of himself," I said.
"Perhaps," he responded slowly, "to take care of himself." And he glanced suggestively at Cynthia.
The innuendo was intolerable. I gaped at the slim, brown-haired girl. Surely she would resent this. Traitor if she pleased, she was still a woman. But she only looked up wist-
