I entered where he indicated.  It was a spacious apartment, evidently a library from the book-shelves along the walls, and the great writing table in the center.  The high ceiling, and restful wall decorations were emphasized by all the furnishings, the soft rug, into which the feet sank noiselessly, the numerous leather-upholstered chairs, the luxurious couch, and the divan filling the bay-window.  The only light was under a shaded globe on the central table, leaving the main apartment in shadows, but the windows had their heavy curtains closely drawn.  The sole occupant was a man in evening dress, seated in a high-backed leather chair, facing the entrance, a small stand beside him, containing a half-filled glass, and an open box of cigars.  Smoke circled above his head, his eyes upon me as I entered.  With an indolent wave of one hand he seemingly invited me to take a vacant chair to the right, while Neale remained standing near the door.

This new position gave me a better view of his face, but I could not guess his age.  His was one of those old-young faces, deeply lined, smooth-shaven, the hair clipped short, the flesh ashen-gray, the lips a mere straight slit, yielding a merciless expression; but the eyes, surveying me coldly, were the noticeable feature.  They looked to be black, not large, but deep set, and with a most peculiar gleam, almost that of insanity, in their intense stare.  Even as he lounged back amid the chair cushions I could see that he was tall, and a bit angular, his hand, holding a cigar, evidencing unusual strength.  He must have stared at me a full minute, much as a jockey would examine a horse, before he resumed smoking.

“He will do very well, Neale,” he decided, with a glance across at the other.  “Possibly a trifle young.”

“He has roughed it,” returned the other reassuringly, “and that means more than years.”

The first man laughed rather unpleasantly, and emptied his glass.

“So I have discovered.  Have a cigar, or a drink, Craig?”

“I will smoke.”

He passed me the box, watching me while I lighted the perfecto, Neale crossing to the divan.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“I thought about that.  What part of the country do you hail from?” and I noticed now a faint Southern accent in the drawl of his voice.

“New England.”

“Ever been south?”

“Only as far as St. Louis.  I was at Jefferson Barracks.”

“Neale said you were in the army—­full enlistment?”

“Yes; discharged as corporal.”

“Ah; what regiment?”

“Third Cavalry.”

His black eyes swept across toward Neale, his fingers drumming nervously on the leather arm of the chair.

“Exactly; then your service was in Oregon and the Philippines.  Tramped some since, I understand—­broke?”

“No,” shortly, not greatly enjoying his style of questioning.  “I ’ve got three dollars.”