Rand touched the extended snuff-box with his fingers, muttered an absent word or two, and again sank into revery.  Mr. Pincornet, with an affable, “Ah, hunter!” to Gaudylock, passed on to greet an entering compatriot, the good Abbe Dubois.

Rand sat still, his head propped upon one hand, the fingers of the other moving upon the board before him, half aimlessly, half deliberately, as though he wrote in a dream.  Opposite him rested Adam, placid as an eastern god.  The room began to fill and the murmur of voices to deepen.  “The Red Deer is late,” affirmed some one.  “Damned heavy roads!”

“Then they’ve sent on a rider!” cried another.  “Here’s Lynch’s man with the bag!”

It being the custom to address letters, papers, and pamphlets to gentlemen at “Lynch’s Coffee House,” there was now a general movement of interest and expectation.  A negro carrying a pair of saddle-bags advanced, obsequious and smiling, to a high desk at one side of the room and placed thereon the news from the outer world The genial Mr Lynch, proprietor of the establishment, took his place behind the desk with due solemnity, and a score of lawyers, merchants, and planters left tobacco, wine, julep, and toddy to press around his temporary throne.  Every day at this hour Lynch mounted this height, and he dearly loved the transient importance.  Now he solemnly unfastened the bags, drew out a great handful of matter, looked it over, amid laughing clamour, with pursed lips and one raised, deprecating hand, then in a cheerful, wheezing voice began to call out names,—­“Major Du Val—­Major Baker—­Mr. Allan—­Mr. Munford—­Mr. Chavallie—­Colonel Harvie—­Major Gibbon—­Dr. Foushee—­Mr. Warrington—­Major Willis—­Mr. Wickham—­Mr. Rand—­”

There was a moment’s check while Lynch craned his neck.  “Mr. Rand’s not here, I believe?”

“Lewis Rand,—­no!” quoth Mr. Wickham.  “What should he do in a mere coffee house with mere earthly newspapers?  He’s walking somewhere in a laurel garden in the cool of the evening.”

Rand’s voice came out of the depths of the room that was now just light enough to see the written word.  “I am here, Mr. Lynch.”  He rose and came forward.  “Good-afternoon, gentlemen—­good-afternoon, Mr. Wickham!”

“Did you hear?” asked Wickham coolly.  “Well, it is a laurel garden, you know!  Mr. Lynch, let’s have candles—­”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Lynch.  “Colonel Ambler—­Mr. Carrington—­Mr. Rutherfoord—­Mr. Page—­Mr. Cary—­Mr. Fairfax Cary—­”

“They are coming later,” said a voice.

“Thank you, Mr. Mason—­Mr. Carter—­Mr. Call—­Mr. Cabell—­the Abbe Dubois-”