Still Chantry smoked in silence, waiting.  The confidence that had brought the other to him was very near now, almost apparent.  Only too well he knew the signs—­the good-natured satire that ill concealed a tolerance broad as the earth, the flow of trivialities that cleared the way later of non-essentials.  In silence he waited; and, as he had known the moment that big figure appeared in the doorway, it came.

Deliberately Landor removed the stogie from his lips, as deliberately flicked off the loose ash onto the floor at his side, inspected the burning tuck critically.

“Supposing,” he introduced baldly, “a fellow—­an old fellow like myself,” he corrected precisely, “was to be going about his business as an old fellow should, in a two-seated surrey with canvas curtains such as you’ve seen me drive sometimes.”  The speaker paused a second to clear his throat.  “Supposing this old fellow was just riding through the country easy, taking his time and with nothing particular on his mind, and all of a sudden he should feel as though someone had sneaked up and stuck him from behind with a long, sharp knife.  Supposing this should happen, and, although it was the middle of the day, everything should go black as night and he should wake up, he couldn’t tell how much later, and find himself all heaped up in the bottom of the rig and the team stock still out in the middle of the prairie.”  Deliberately as it had left, the cigar returned to the speaker’s lips, was puffed hard until it glowed furiously; and was again critically examined.  “Supposing such a fat old fellow as myself should tell you this.  As a doc and a specialist, would you think there was something worth while the matter with him?”

Still Chantry did not speak, but the burned-out stump in his fingers sought a remote corner of the room, consorted with a goodly collection of its mates, and the drooping eyelid tightened.

“Supposing,” continued Landor, “the thing should happen the second time, and the old fellow, who wasn’t good at walking, should be spilled out and have to foot it home three miles.  What would you think then?”

One of Chantry’s hands, itself not over clean, dusted the ash off his vest absently.

“When was it, this last time?” he questioned.

“Yesterday,” impassively.  “I’d started for here to meet my nephew when the thing struck me; and when I managed to get home I sent How over instead.”  He halted reminiscently.  “I wrote the boy to come a couple of weeks ago—­that’s when it caught me first.”

“Your nephew, Craig, knows about it, does he?”

Landor puffed anew with a shade of embarrassment.

“No.  I thought there was no call to tell the folks at the ranch.  Mary’d have a cat-fit if she knew.  I told them I got out to shoot at a coyote, and the bronchos ran away.”  He glanced at the other explanatorily, deprecatingly.  “Clayton is my sister’s son and the only real relative I have, you know.  I just asked him to come on general principles.”