With a nebulous kind of apprehension that I might be recognized as the mute inglorious hero of an adventure which had in my consciousness and conscience something of the character of eavesdropping, I allowed myself only a hasty cup of the lukewarm coffee thoughtfully provided by the prescient waitress for the emergency, and left the table.  As I passed out of the house into the grounds I heard a rich, strong male voice singing an aria from “Rigoletto.”  I am bound to say that it was exquisitely sung, too, but there was something in the performance that displeased me, I could say neither what nor why, and I walked rapidly away.

Returning later in the day I saw the elder of the two young women standing on the porch and near her a tall man in black clothing—­the man whom I had expected to see.  All day the desire to know something of these persons had been uppermost in my mind and I now resolved to learn what I could of them in any way that was neither dishonorable nor low.

The man was talking easily and affably to his companion, but at the sound of my footsteps on the gravel walk he ceased, and turning about looked me full in the face.  He was apparently of middle age, dark and uncommonly handsome.  His attire was faultless, his bearing easy and graceful, the look which he turned upon me open, free, and devoid of any suggestion of rudeness.  Nevertheless it affected me with a distinct emotion which on subsequent analysis in memory appeared to be compounded of hatred and dread—­I am unwilling to call it fear.  A second later the man and woman had disappeared.  They seemed to have a trick of disappearing.  On entering the house, however, I saw them through the open doorway of the parlor as I passed; they had merely stepped through a window which opened down to the floor.

Cautiously “approached” on the subject of her new guests my landlady proved not ungracious.  Restated with, I hope, some small reverence for English grammar the facts were these:  the two girls were Pauline and Eva Maynard of San Francisco; the elder was Pauline.  The man was Richard Benning, their guardian, who had been the most intimate friend of their father, now deceased.  Mr. Benning had brought them to Brownville in the hope that the mountain climate might benefit Eva, who was thought to be in danger of consumption.

Upon these short and simple annals the landlady wrought an embroidery of eulogium which abundantly attested her faith in Mr. Benning’s will and ability to pay for the best that her house afforded.  That he had a good heart was evident to her from his devotion to his two beautiful wards and his really touching solicitude for their comfort.  The evidence impressed me as insufficient and I silently found the Scotch verdict, “Not proven.”

Certainly Mr. Benning was most attentive to his wards.  In my strolls about the country I frequently encountered them—­sometimes in company with other guests of the hotel—­exploring the gulches, fishing, rifle shooting, and otherwise wiling away the monotony of country life; and although I watched them as closely as good manners would permit I saw nothing that would in any way explain the strange words that I had overheard in the wood.  I had grown tolerably well acquainted with the young ladies and could exchange looks and even greetings with their guardian without actual repugnance.