s but half-concealed by the roughly trimmed
beard of inky blackness. And, the most dominant feature of all, the
compelling magnetism of the steel-grey eyes of him--eyes, deep-set
beneath heavy black brows that curved and met--eyes that stabbed, and
bored, and probed, as if to penetrate to the ultimate motive. Hard
eyes they were, whose directness of gaze spoke at once fearlessness and
intolerance of opposition; spoke, also, of combat, rather than
diplomacy; of the honest smashing of foes, rather than dissimulation.

Ail this the girl saw in the first moments of their meeting. She saw,
too, that the eyes held a hostile gleam, and that she need expect from
their owner no sympathy--no deference of sex. If war were to be
between them, it would be a man's war, waged upon man's terms, in a
man's country. No quarter would be given--Chloe's lips pressed
tight--nor would any be asked.

The moments lengthened into an appreciable space of time and the man
remained motionless, regarding her with that probing, searching stare.
Lapierre he ignored after the first swift glance. Instinctively the
girl knew that the man had no intention of being deliberately or
studiously rude in standing thus in her presence with head covered, and
eyeing her with those steel-grey, steel-hard eyes. Nevertheless, his
attitude angered her, the more because she knew he did not intend to.
And in this she was right--MacNair stared because he was silently
taking her measure, and his hat remained upon his head because he knew
of no reason why it should not remain upon his head.

Chloe was the first to speak, and in her voice was more than a trace of
annoyance.

"Well, Mr. Mind-Reader, have you figured me out--why I am here, and----"

"No." The word boomed deeply from the man's throat, smashing the
question that was intended to carry the sting of sarcasm. "Except that
it is for no good--though you doubtless think it is for great good."

"Indeed!" The girl laughed a trifle sharply. "And who, then, is the
judge?"

"I am." The calm assurance of the man fanned her rising anger, and,
when she answered, her voice was low and steady, with the tonelessness
of forced control.

"And your name, you Oligarch of the Far Outland? May I presume to ask
your name?"

"Why ask? My name you already know. And upon the word of yon scum,
you have judged. By the glint o' hate, as you looked into my eyes, I
know--for one does not so welcome a stranger beyond t