the air of debating a question, his hands in his pockets,
his handsome forehead lined with a temporary indecision. His
sentry-go extended the length of his two rooms, and each time he
came back into his bedroom his glance fell consideringly upon a
steamer-trunk of the largest size, at the foot of his bed. The
trunk was partially packed as if for departure. And, indeed, it
was the question of departure which he was debating.

He was a man of varied dexterities, and he had one faculty of high
value, which had often saved him, had never betrayed him; it was
intuitive and equal to a sixth sense: he always knew when it was
time to go. An inner voice warned him; he trusted to it and obeyed
it. And it had spoken now, and there was his trunk half-packed in
answer. But he had stopped midway in his packing, because he had
never yet failed to make a clean sweep where there was the
slightest chance for one; he hated to leave a big job before it
was completely finished--and Mr. Wade Trumble had refused to
invest in the oil-fields of Basilicata.

Corliss paused beside the trunk, stood a moment immersed in
thought; then nodded once, decisively, and, turning to a
dressing-table, began to place some silver-mounted brushes and
bottles in a leather travelling-case.

There was a knock at the outer door. He frowned, set down what he
had in his hands, went to the door and opened it to find Mr.
Pryor, that plain citizen, awaiting entrance.

Corliss remained motionless in an arrested attitude, his hand upon
the knob of the opened door. His position did not alter; he became
almost unnaturally still, a rigidity which seemed to increase.
Then he looked quickly behind him, over his shoulder, and back
again, with a swift movement of the head.

"No," said Pryor, at that. "I don't want you. I just thought I'd
have two minutes' talk with you. All right?"

"All right," said Corliss quietly. "Come in." He turned
carelessly, and walked away from the door keeping between his
guest and the desk. When he reached the desk, he turned again and
leaned against it, his back to it, but in the action of turning
his hand had swept a sheet of note-paper over Ray Vilas's
cheque--a too conspicuous oblong of pale blue. Pryor had come in
and closed the door.

"I don't know," he began, regarding the other through his glasses,
with steady eyes, "that I'm going to interfere with you at all,
Corliss. I just happened to strike you--I wasn't looking for you.
I'm on