His words seemed to appeal to Whitwell’s impartiality.  “Well, I d’ know as I should say bad, exactly.  He’s a mixture.”

“He’s a bad mixture,” said Westover.

“Well, I guess you’re partly right there,” Whitwell admitted, with a laugh.  After a dreamy moment he asked:  “Ever hear anything more about that girl here in Boston?”

Westover knew that he meant Bessie Lynde.  “She’s abroad somewhere, with her aunt.”

Whitwell had not taken any wine; apparently he was afraid of forming instantly the habit of drink if he touched it; but he tolerated Westover’s pint of Zinfandel, and he seemed to warm sympathetically to a greater confidence as the painter made away with it.  “There’s one thing I never told Cynthy yet; well, Jombateeste didn’t tell me himself till after Jeff was gone; and then, thinks I, what’s the use?  But I guess you had better know.”

He leaned forward across the table, and gave Jombateeste’s story of the encounter between Jeff and Alan Lynde in the clearing.  “Now what do you suppose was the reason Jeff let up on the feller?  Of course, he meant to choke the life out of him, and his just ketchin’ sight of Jombateeste—­do you believe that was enough to stop him, when he’d started in for a thing like that?  Or what was it done it?”

Westover listened with less thought of the fact itself than of another fact that it threw light upon.  It was clear to him now that the Class-Day scrapping which had left its marks upon Jeff’s face was with Lynde, and that when Jeff got him in his power he was in such a fury for revenge that no mere motive of prudence could have arrested him.  In both events, it must have been Bessie Lynde that was the moving cause; but what was it that stayed Jeff in his vengeance?

“Let him up, and let him walk away, you say?” he demanded of Whitwell.

Whitwell nodded.  “That’s what Jombateeste said.  Said Jeff said if he let the feller look back he’d shoot him.  But he didn’t haf to.”

“I can’t make it out,” Westover sighed.

“It’s been too much for me,” Whitwell said.  “I told Jombateeste he’d better keep it to himself, and I guess he done so.  S’pose Jeff still had a sneakin’ fondness for the girl?”

“I don’t know; perhaps,” Westover asserted.

Whitwell threw his head back in a sudden laugh that showed all the work of his dentist.  “Well, wouldn’t it be a joke if he was there in Florence after her?  Be just like Jeff.”

“It would be like Jeff; I don’t know whether it would be a joke or not.  I hope he won’t find it a joke, if it’s so,” said Westover, gloomily.  A fantastic apprehension seized him, which made him wish for the moment that it might be so, and which then passed, leaving him simply sorry for any chance that might bring Bessie Lynde into the fellow’s way again.