His door was opened, and a man, not a soldier, came in with soup in a tin basin.  He uttered a low exclamation, when he saw that Ned was conscious, but he made no explanations.  Nor did Ned ask him anything.  But he ate the soup with a good appetite, and felt very much stronger.  His mind, too, began to wake up.  He knew that he was going to get well, but it occurred to him that it might be better for him to conceal his returning strength.  With a relaxed watch he would have more chance to escape.

The soup had a soothing effect, and his mind shared with his body in the improvement.  It was obvious that they had not intended for him to die or they would not have taken care of him in his illness.  The shaven head was proof.  But he saw nothing that he could do.  He must wait upon the action of his jailers.  Having come to this conclusion he lay upon his pallet, and let vague thoughts float through his head as they would.

About three hours after they had brought him his soup he heard a scratching at the keyhole of his door.  He was not too languid to be surprised.  He did not think it likely that any of his jailers would come back so soon, and heretofore the key had always turned in the lock without noise.

Ned sat up.  The scratching continued for a few moments, and the door swung open.  A tall, thin figure of a man entered, the door closed behind him, and with some further scratching he locked it.  Then the man turned and stared at Ned.  Ned stared with equal intentness at him.

The figure that he saw was thin and six feet four; the face that he saw was thin and long.  The face was also bleached to an indescribable dead white, the effect of which was heightened by the thick and fiery red hair that crowned a head, broad and shaped finely.  His hair even in the dark seemed to be vital, the most vital part of him.  Ned fancied that his eyes were blue, although in the dimness he could not tell.  But he knew that this was no Mexican.  A member of his own race stood before him.

“Well,” said Ned.

“Well?” replied the man in a singularly soft and pleasant voice.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“To the first I am Obed White; to the second I want to talk to you, and I would append as a general observation that I am harmless.  Evil to him that would evil do.”

“The quotation is wrong,” said Ned, smiling faintly.  “It is ’evil to him who evil thinks.’”

“Perhaps, but I have improved upon it.  I add, for your further information, that I am your nearest neighbor.  I occupy the magnificent concrete parlor next door to you, where I live a life of undisturbed ease, but I have concluded at last to visit you, and here I am.  How I came I will explain later.  But I am glad I am with you.  One crowded hour of glorious company is worth a hundred years in a solitary cell.  I may have got that a little wrong, too, but it sounds well.”

He sat down in Turkish fashion on the floor, folding a pair of extremely long legs beneath him, and regarded Ned with a slow, quizzical smile.  For the life of him the boy could not keep from smiling back.  With the nearer view he could see now that the eyes were blue and honest.