It was with much satisfaction that David read these accounts to the captain as they sat out upon the verandah.  He was a happy man that day, and when he was through with his reading he leaned back in his chair and remained silent for a long time.  The captain watched him somewhat curiously as he puffed away at his pipe.  Presently he took the pipe from his mouth and allowed it to go out, which was a most unusual thing for him.  He even stared at David as if he had never seen him before.  What his thoughts were he kept to himself, but he observed the old man now more closely than ever and studied his face most carefully.

They had been sitting on the verandah for about half an hour, when Sydney Bramshaw strolled up to the house, with his easel under his arm.  He looked none the worse for his experience with Jasper and was most affable as he accosted David, who at once introduced him to the captain.

“You have a beautiful place here, sir,” he remarked to the invalid.  “I have been fascinated with the scenery and have done considerable work since my arrival.  May I have the privilege of sketching this delightful cottage?  It will make a fine picture, I am sure.”

“Sketch away all you like,” the captain replied.  “It is a beautiful spot, if I do say it, and it can’t be beat anywhere.”

From the moment the captain had set eyes upon the artist he was sure that he had seen him before.  Just where it was he could not at first recall, but suddenly it flashed into his mind, and with it a train of thoughts which excited him more than was his wont.  He looked at David and then at the artist, and for a moment he closed his eyes as memories drifted upon him.  What was this man doing here? he asked himself.  He longed to question Bramshaw, but desisted, determined to await future developments.  Nevertheless, he was very quiet during the rest of the day, which made his wife and Betty think that he was not well.

“You are not sick, are you?” Mrs. Peterson asked.

“Not at all,” was the reply.  “I am only thinking.”

“Maybe he’s got something in his head just like Mr. David,” Betty suggested.

“Maybe I have, girl,” the captain laughed.  “But I’m afraid the thing that I’ve got won’t make as much money as his.  Where is Mr. David now?”

“He’s with that artist over there, watching him sketch this house.  He likes the man, for he talks to him so much about the falls.  I don’t like him; his face frightens me.”

The captain made no reply to these words but gazed meditatively out over the fields long after Mrs. Peterson and Betty had left him.  He was trying to piece together a number of fragmentary incidents which were revolving in his mind, and to ascertain how they were related.

“I’m sure ’twas on that trip,” he muttered, “But darn it all, why can’t I remember what he said.  He was always talking and boasting about one thing and another.  Hello, by jingo, I’ve got it!” and the captain gave such a whoop that both Mrs. Peterson and Betty came running from the kitchen to see what was the matter.