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.
"Sibyl Andrés is the most accomplished violinist I have ever heard," said the Ranger. "And I haven't always lived in these mountains, you know. As for Myra Willard--well--she taught Sibyl--though she doesn't pretend to equal her now."
Conrad Lagrange was interested, now, in earnest He turned to the artist, eagerly--but with caution--"Do you suppose it could be our neighbors in the orange grove, Aaron?"
Brian Oakley watched them with quiet amusement.
"Sure--I heard the violin this afternoon. While I was fishing," he added hastily, when the Ranger laughed.
The novelist commented savagely, "Seems to me you're mighty careful about keeping your news to yourself!"
This brought another burst of merriment from the mountaineer.
When the two men had explained to the Ranger about the music in the orange grove, Conrad Lagrange related how they had first heard that cry in the night; and how, when they had gone to the neighboring house, they had seen the woman of the disfigured face standing in the doorway.
"It was Miss Willard who cried out," said Brian Oakley, quietly. "She dreams, sometimes, of the accident--or whatever it was--that left her with those scars--at least, that's what I think it is. Certainly it's no ordinary dream that would make a woman cry like that. The first time I heard her--the first time that she ever did it, in fact--she and Sibyl were stopping over night at my house. It was three years ago. Jim Rutlidge had just come West, on his first trip, and was up in the hills on a hunt. He happened along about sundown, and when he stepped into the room and Myra saw him, I thought she would faint. He looked like some one she had known--she said. And that night she gave that horrible cry. Lord! but it threw a fright into me. My wife didn't get over being nervous, for a week. Myra explained that she had dreamed--but that's all she would say. I figured that being upset by Rutlidge's reminding her of some one she had known started her mind to going on the past--and then she dreamed of whatever it was that gave her those scars."