“Jimmie Whistler taught that fellow a trick or two,” he remarked.

“You knew Whistler?”

“Oh yes.”

We left him with Punch and a copy of an art journal.  Ajax said to me, as we went back to the barn—­

“I’ll bet he’s an artist of sorts.”

It happened that we had in our cellar some fine claret; a few magnums of Leoville, ’74, a present from a millionaire friend.  We never drank it except upon great occasions.  Ajax suggested a bottle of this elixir, not entirely out of charity.  Such tipple would warm a graven image into speech, and my brother is inordinately curious.  Our guest had nothing to give to us except his confidence, and that he had withheld.

We decanted the claret very carefully.  As soon as our guest tasted it, he sighed and said quietly—­

“I never expected to taste that again.  It’s Leoville, isn’t it?  And in exquisite condition.”

He sipped the wine in silence, while I thought of the bundle of foul rags upon our rubbish heap.  Ajax was talking shop, describing with some humour our latest deal, and the present high price of fat steers.  Our guest listened politely, and when Ajax paused, he said ironically—­

“Yours is a gospel of hard work.  I dare say you have ridden two horses to a standstill to-day?  Just so.  I can’t ride, or plough, or dig.”

Ajax opened his lips to reply, and closed them.  Our guest smiled.

“You are wondering what brought me to California.  As a matter of fact, a private car.  No, thanks, no more claret.”

Later, we hoped he might melt into confidence over tobacco and toddy.  He smoked one cigar slowly, and with evident appreciation; and, as he smoked, he stroked the head of Conan, our Irish setter, an ultra-particular person, who abominated tramps and strangers.

“Conan likes you,” said Ajax abruptly.

“Is that his name?  ‘Conan,’ eh?  Good Conan, good dog!” Presently, he threw away the stub of his cigar and crossed to a small mirror.  With a self-possession rather surprising, he began to examine himself.

“I am renewing acquaintance,” he explained gravely, “with a man I have not seen for some months.”

“By what name shall we call that man?” said Ajax boldly.

There was a slight pause, and then our guest said quietly—­

“Would ‘Sponge’ do?  ’Soapy Sponge’!”

“No,” said my brother.

“My father’s Christian name was John.  Call me ‘Johnson.’”

Accordingly, we called him Johnson for the rest of the evening.  While the toddies were being consumed, Johnson observed the safe, a purchase of my brother’s, in which we kept our papers and accounts and any money we might have.  We had bought it, second-hand, and the vendor assured us it was quite burglar-proof.  Ajax mentioned this to our guest.  He laughed presently.

“No safe is burglar-proof,” he said; “and most certainly not that one.”  He continued in a slightly different tone:  “I suppose you are not imprudent enough to keep money in it.  I mean gold.  On a big, lonely ranch like this all your money affairs should be transacted with cheques.”