In the dining-room, a few minutes later, the two men sat at adjoining tables; and the young man heard his neighbor bullying the waiters and commenting in an audible undertone, upon every dish that was served to him—­swearing by all the heathen gods, known and unknown, that there was nothing fit to eat in the house; and that if it were not for the fact that there was no place else in the cursed town that served half so good, he would not touch a mouthful in the place.  Then, to the other’s secret amusement he fell to right heartily and made an astonishing meal of the really excellent viands he had so roundly vilified.

Dinner over, the young man went with his cigar to the long veranda; intent upon enjoying the restful quiet of the evening after the tiresome days on the train.  Carrying a chair to an unoccupied corner, he had his cigar just nicely under way when the Irish Setter—­with all the dignity of his royal blood—­approached.  Resting a seal-brown head, with its long silky ears, confidently upon the stranger’s knee, the dog looked up into the man’s face with an expression of hearty good-fellowship in his soft, golden-brown eyes that was irresistible.

“Good dog,” said the man, heartily, “good old fellow,” and stroked the sleek head and neck, affectionately.

A whiff of pipe smoke drifted over his shoulder, and he looked around.  The dog’s master stood just behind him; regarding him with that quizzing, half pathetic, half humorous, and altogether cynical expression.

The young man who had been so unresponsive to the advances of his fellow passengers, for some reason—­unknown, probably, to himself—­now took the initiative.  “You have a fine dog here, sir,” he said encouragingly.

Without replying, the other turned away and in another moment returned with a chair; whereupon the dog, with slightly waving, feathery tail, transferred his attention to his master.

Caressing the seal-brown head with a gentle hand, and apparently speaking to the soft eyes that looked up at him so understandingly, the man said, “If the human race was fit to associate with such dogs, the world would be a more comfortable place to live in.”  The deep voice that rumbled up from some unguessed depths of that sunken chest was remarkable in its suggestion of a virile power that the general appearance of the man seemed to deny.  Facing his companion suddenly, he asked with a direct bluntness, “Are you not Aaron King—­son of the Aaron King of New England political fame?”

Under the searching gaze of those green-gray eyes, the young man flushed.  “Yes; my father was active in New England politics,” he answered simply.  “Did you know him?”

“Very well”—­returned the other—­“very well.”  He repeated the two words with a suggestive emphasis; his eyes—­with that curious, baffling, questioning look—­still fixed upon his companion’s face.

The red in Aaron King’s cheeks deepened.