“Besides, for a young fellow like you, with your agility, what is eight miles?  Walk down the road and you will come to a place where you will be made at home and fed like a king.”

“Eight miles, that’s not much!  But on such a night as this?”

There was a faint glint in the eyes of the colonel; was he not sharpening his wits for his contest of words, and enjoying it?

“The wind will be at your back and buoy your steps.  It will shorten the eight miles to four.”

Very definitely Donnegan felt that the other was reading him.  What was it that he saw as he turned the pages?

“There is one thing you fail to take into your accounting.”

“Ah?”

“I have an irresistible aversion to walking.”

“Ah?” repeated Macon.

“Or exercise in any form.”

“Then you are unfortunate to be in this country without a horse.”

“Unfortunate, perhaps, but the fact is that I’m here.  Very sorry to trouble you, though, colonel.”

“I am rarely troubled,” said the colonel coldly.  “And since I have no means of accommodation, the laws of hospitality rest light on my shoulders.”

“Yet I have an odd thought,” replied Donnegan.

“Well?  You have expressed a number already, it seems to me.”

“It’s this:  that you’ve already made up your mind to keep me here.”

8

The colonel stiffened in his chair, and under his bulk even those ponderous timbers quaked a little.  Once more Donnegan gained an impression of chained activity ready to rise to any emergency.  The colonel’s jaw set and the last vestige of the smile left his eyes.  Yet it was not anger that showed in its place.  Instead, it was rather a hungry searching.  He looked keenly into the face and the soul of Donnegan as a searchlight sweeps over waters by night.

“You are a mind reader, Mr. Donnegan.”

“No more of a mind reader than a Chinaman is.”

“Ah, they are great readers of mind, my friend.”

Donnegan grinned, and at this the colonel frowned.

“A great and mysterious people, sir.  I keep evidences of them always about me.  Look!”

He swept the shaft of the reading light up and it fell upon a red vase against the yellow hangings.  Even Donnegan’s inexperienced eye read a price into that shimmering vase.

“Queer color,” he said.

“Dusty claret.  Ah, they have the only names for their colors.  Think!  Peach bloom—­liquid dawn—­ripe cherry—­oil green—­green of powdered tea—­blue of the sky after rain—­what names for color!  What other land possesses such a tongue that goes straight to the heart!”

The colonel waved his faultless hands and then dropped them back upon the book with the tenderness of a benediction.

“And their terms for texture—­pear’s rind—­lime peel—­millet seed!  Do not scoff at China, Mr. Donnegan.  She is the fairy godmother, and we are the poor children.”