It was a spacious apartment, evidently a
library from the book-shelves along the walls, and the great writing
table in the center. The high ceiling, and restful wall decorations
were emphasized by all the furnishings, the soft rug, into which the
feet sank noiselessly, the numerous leather-upholstered chairs, the
luxurious couch, and the divan filling the bay-window. The only light
was under a shaded globe on the central table, leaving the main
apartment in shadows, but the windows had their heavy curtains closely
drawn. The sole occupant was a man in evening dress, seated in a
high-backed leather chair, facing the entrance, a small stand beside
him, containing a half-filled glass, and an open box of cigars. Smoke
circled above his head, his eyes upon me as I entered. With an
indolent wave of one hand he seemingly invited me to take a vacant
chair to the right, while Neale remained standing near the door.

This new position gave me a better view of his face, but I could not
guess his age. His was one of those old-young faces, deeply lined,
smooth-shaven, the hair clipped short, the flesh ashen-gray, the lips a
mere straight slit, yielding a merciless expression; but the eyes,
surveying me coldly, were the noticeable feature. They looked to be
black, not large, but deep set, and with a most peculiar gleam, almost
that of insanity, in their intense stare. Even as he lounged back amid
the chair cushions I could see that he was tall, and a bit angular, his
hand, holding a cigar, evidencing unusual strength. He must have
stared at me a full minute, much as a jockey would examine a horse,
before he resumed smoking.

"He will do very well, Neale," he decided, with a glance across at the
other. "Possibly a trifle young."

"He has roughed it," returned the other reassuringly, "and that means
more than years."

The first man laughed rather unpleasantly, and emptied his glass.

"So I have discovered. Have a cigar, or a drink, Craig?"

"I will smoke."

He passed me the box, watching me while I lighted the perfecto, Neale
crossing to the divan.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"I thought about that. What part of the country do you hail from?" and
I noticed now a faint Southern accent in the drawl of his voice.

"New England."

"Ever been south?"

"Only as far as St. Louis. I was at Jefferson Barracks."

"Neale said you were in the army--full enlistment?"

"Yes; discharged as corporal."

"Ah; w