philosophic concentration, so that his mental hiatuses had given him a reputation for profundity, which was county wide.  It had been this, years before, that had carried him by a powerful majority into the Tennessee legislature.  The voters agreed, almost to a man, that they preferred depth to a shallow facility.  The rival candidate had been shallow and facile.  The polls returned the Captain, and the young gentleman—­for the Captain was a young gentleman in those days—­was launched on a typical politician’s career.  But some Republican member from east Tennessee had impugned the rising statesman’s honor with some sort of improper liaison.  In those days there seemed to be proper and improper liaisons.  There had been a duel on the banks of the Cumberland River in which the Captain succeeded in wounding his traducer in the arm, and was thus vindicated by the gods.  But the incident ended a career that might very well have wound up in the governor’s chair, or even in the United States Senate, considering how very deliberate the Captain was mentally.

To-day, as the Captain walked up the street following Cissie Dildine, one of these vacant moods fell upon him and it was not until they had reached his own gate that it suddenly occurred to the old gentleman just what Cissie’s sumac did mean.  It was a signal to Peter.  The simplicity of the solution stirred the old man.  Its meaning was equally easy to fathom.  When a woman signals any man it conveys consent.  Denials receive no signals; they are inferred.  In this particular case Captain Renfrew found every reason to believe that this flaring bit of sumac was the prelude to an elopement.

In the window of his library the Captain saw his secretary staring at his cards and books with an intentness plainly assumed.  Peter’s fixed stare had none of those small movements of the head that mark genuine intellectual labor.  So Peter was posing, pretending he did not see the girl, to disarm his employer’s suspicions,—­pretending not to see a girl rigged out like that!

Such duplicity sent a queer spasm of anguish through the old lawyer.  Peter’s action held half a dozen barbs for the Captain.  A fellow-alumnus of Harvard staying in his house merely for his wage and keep!  Peter bore not the slightest affection for him; the mulatto lacked even the chivalry to notify the Captain of his intentions, because he knew the Captain objected.  And yet all these self-centered objections were nothing to what old Captain Renfrew felt for Peter’s own sake.  For Peter to marry a nigger and a strumpet, for him to elope with a wanton and a thief!  For such an upstanding lad, the very picture of his own virility and mental alertness when he was of that age, for such a boy to fling himself away, to drop out of existence—­oh, it was loathly!

The old man entered the library feeling sick.  It was empty.  Peter had gone to his room, according to his custom.  But in this particular instance it seemed to Captain Renfrew his withdrawal was flavored with a tang of guilt.  If he were innocent, why should not such a big, strong youth have stayed and helped an old gentleman off with his overcoat?