The Colonel spent that afternoon in making diplomatic inquiries.  He found his youthful client was the daughter of a widow who had a small ranch on the cross-roads, near the new Free-Will Baptist church—­the evident theatre of this pastoral.  They led a secluded life; the girl being little known in the town, and her beauty and fascination apparently not yet being a recognized fact.  The Colonel felt a pleasurable relief at this, and a general satisfaction he could not account for.  His few inquiries concerning Mr. Hotchkiss only confirmed his own impressions of the alleged lover—­a serious-minded, practically abstracted man—­abstentive of youthful society, and the last man apparently capable of levity of the affections or serious flirtation.  The Colonel was mystified—­but determined of purpose—­whatever that purpose might have been.

The next day he was at his office at the same hour.  He was alone—­as usual—­the Colonel’s office really being his private lodgings, disposed in connecting rooms, a single apartment reserved for consultation.  He had no clerk; his papers and briefs being taken by his faithful body-servant and ex-slave “Jim” to another firm who did his office-work since the death of Major Stryker—­the Colonel’s only law partner, who fell in a duel some years previous.  With a fine constancy the Colonel still retained his partner’s name on his door-plate—­and, it was alleged by the superstitious, kept a certain invincibility also through the manes of that lamented and somewhat feared man.

The Colonel consulted his watch, whose heavy gold case still showed the marks of a providential interference with a bullet destined for its owner, and replaced it with some difficulty and shortness of breath in his fob.  At the same moment he heard a step in the passage, and the door opened to Adoniram K. Hotchkiss.  The Colonel was impressed; he had a duellist’s respect for punctuality.

The man entered with a nod and the expectant, inquiring look of a busy man.  As his feet crossed that sacred threshold the Colonel became all courtesy; he placed a chair for his visitor, and took his hat from his half-reluctant hand.  He then opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“A—­er—­slight refreshment, Mr. Hotchkiss,” he suggested, politely.  “I never drink,” replied Hotchkiss, with the severe attitude of a total abstainer.  “Ah—­er—­not the finest bourbon whiskey, selected by a Kentucky friend?  No?  Pardon me!  A cigar, then—­the mildest Havana.”

“I do not use tobacco nor alcohol in any form,” repeated Hotchkiss, ascetically.  “I have no foolish weaknesses.”