Strange, isn’t it?  How often we are right (permit the smile) in our estimate of people?

When Chloe Elliston turned to face MacNair among the stumps of the sunlit clearing, her opinion of the man had already been formed.  He was Brute MacNair, one to be hated, despised.  To be fought, conquered, and driven out of the North—­for the good of the North.  His influence was a malignant ulcer—­a cancerous plague-spot, whose evil tentacles, reaching hidden and unseen, would slowly but surely fasten themselves upon the civilization of the North—­sap its vitality—­poison its blood.

In the flash of her first glance the girl’s eyes took in every particular and detail of him.  She noted the huge frame, broad, yet lean with the gaunt leanness of health, and endurance, and physical strength.  The sinew-corded, bronzed hands that clenched slowly as his glance rested for a moment upon the face of Lapierre.  The weather-tanned neck that rose, columnlike, from the open shirt-throat.  The well-poised head.  The prominent, high-bridged nose.  The lantern jaw, whose rugged outline was but half-concealed by the roughly trimmed beard of inky blackness.  And, the most dominant feature of all, the compelling magnetism of the steel-grey eyes of him—­eyes, deep-set beneath heavy black brows that curved and met—­eyes that stabbed, and bored, and probed, as if to penetrate to the ultimate motive.  Hard eyes they were, whose directness of gaze spoke at once fearlessness and intolerance of opposition; spoke, also, of combat, rather than diplomacy; of the honest smashing of foes, rather than dissimulation.

Ail this the girl saw in the first moments of their meeting.  She saw, too, that the eyes held a hostile gleam, and that she need expect from their owner no sympathy—­no deference of sex.  If war were to be between them, it would be a man’s war, waged upon man’s terms, in a man’s country.  No quarter would be given—­Chloe’s lips pressed tight—­nor would any be asked.

The moments lengthened into an appreciable space of time and the man remained motionless, regarding her with that probing, searching stare.  Lapierre he ignored after the first swift glance.  Instinctively the girl knew that the man had no intention of being deliberately or studiously rude in standing thus in her presence with head covered, and eyeing her with those steel-grey, steel-hard eyes.  Nevertheless, his attitude angered her, the more because she knew he did not intend to.  And in this she was right—­MacNair stared because he was silently taking her measure, and his hat remained upon his head because he knew of no reason why it should not remain upon his head.

Chloe was the first to speak, and in her voice was more than a trace of annoyance.

“Well, Mr. Mind-Reader, have you figured me out—­why I am here, and——­”

“No.”  The word boomed deeply from the man’s throat, smashing the question that was intended to carry the sting of sarcasm.  “Except that it is for no good—­though you doubtless think it is for great good.”