“But I must not leave you under the impression,” said Nicolovius, almost testily for him, “that my ideas are unique and extraordinary.  They are shared, in fact, by Southern historians of repute and—­”

Queed turned on him.  “But you never read Southern historians.”

Nicolovius had a smile for that, though his expression seemed subtly to shift.  “I must make confession to you.  Three days ago, I broke the habits of quarter of a century.  At the second-hand shop on Centre Street I bought, actually, a little volume of history.  It is surprising how these Southern manifestations have interested me.”

Queed was an undesirable person for any man to live with who had a secret to keep.  His mind was relentlessly constructive; it would build you up the whole dinosaur from the single left great digitus.  For apparently no reason at all, there had popped into his head a chance remark of Major Brooke’s a year ago, which he had never thought of from that day to this:  “I can’t get over thinking that I’ve seen that man before a long time ago, when he looked entirely different, and yet somehow the same too.”

“I will show you my purchase,” added Nicolovius, after a moment of seeming irresolution.

He disappeared down the hail to his bedroom, a retreat in which Queed had never set foot, and returned promptly carrying a dingy duodecimo in worn brown leather.  As he entered the room, he absently raised the volume to his lips and blew along the edges.

Queed’s mental processes were beyond his own control.  “Three days old,” flashed into his mind, “and he blows dust from it.”

“What is the book?” he asked.

“A very able little history of the Reconstruction era in this State.  I have a mind to read you a passage and convert you.”

Nicolovius sat down, and began turning the pages.  Queed stood a step away, watching him intently.  The old man fluttered the leaves vaguely for a moment; then his expression shifted and, straightening up, he suddenly closed the book.

“I don’t appear to find,” he said easily, “the little passage that so impressed me the day before yesterday.  And after all, what would be the use of reading it to you?  You impetuous young men will never listen to the wisdom of your elders.”

Smiling blandly, the subject closed, it might have been forever, Nicolovius reached out toward the table to flick the ash from his cigarette.  In so doing, as luck had it, he struck the book and knocked it from his knees.  Something shook from its pages as it dropped, and fell almost at Queed’s feet.  Mechanically he stooped to pick it up.

It was a letter, at any rate an envelope, and it had fallen face up, full in the light of the open window.  The envelope bore an address, in faded ink, but written in a bold legible hand.  Not to save his soul could Queed have avoided seeing it: 

     Henry G. Surface, Esq.,
     36 Washington Street.