Thus it happened that, after supper, as they sat
with their pipes, the talk turned upon Sibyl Andres and the woman with the
disfigured face.
The Ranger, to tease the artist, had remarked casually,--after
complimenting them upon the location of their camp,--"And you've got some
mighty nice neighbors, less than a mile above too."
"Neighbors!" ejaculated Conrad Lagrange--in a tone that left no doubt as
to his sentiment in the matter.
The others laughed; while the officer said, "Oh, I know how _you_ feel!
You think you don't want anybody poaching on your preserves. You're up
here in the hills to get away from people, and all that. But you don't
need to be uneasy. You won't even see these folks--unless you sneak up on
them." He stole a look at the artist, and chuckled maliciously as the
painter covertly shook his fist at him. "You may _hear_ them though."
"Which would probably be as bad," retorted the novelist, gruffly.
"Oh, I don't know!" returned the other. "You might be able to stand it. I
don't reckon you would object to a little music now and then, would
you?--_real_ music, I mean."
"So our neighbors are musical, are they?" The novelist seemed slightly
interested.
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