“A magnificent sum,” chuckling.  “However, the point is, you would be glad of a job that paid well, and would n’t mind if there was a bit of excitement connected with it—­hey?”

“What is your idea of paying well?”

“Expenses liberally figured,” he replied slowly, “and ten thousand dollars for a year’s work, if done right.”

I half rose to my feet in surprise, believing he was making sport, but the fellow never moved or smiled.

“Sit down, man.  This is no pipe dream, and I mean it.  In fact, I am willing to hand you half of the money down.  That ’s all right, Neale,” he added as the other made a gesture of dissent.  “I know my business, and enough about men to judge Craig here for that amount.  That we are in earnest we have got to assure him someway, and money talks best.  See here, Craig,” and he leaned forward, peering into my face, “you look to me like the right man for what we want done; you are young, strong, sufficiently intelligent, and a natural fighter.  All right, I ’m sporting man enough to bet five thousand on your making good.  If you fail it will be worse for you, that’s all.  I ’m not a good man to double-cross, see!  All you have got to do to earn your money is obey orders strictly, and keep your tongue still.  Do you get that?”

I nodded, waiting to learn more.

“It may require a year, but more likely much less time.  That makes no difference—­it will be ten thousand for you just the same,” his voice had grown crisp and sharp.  “What do you say?”

“That the proposition looks good, only I should like to know a little more clearly what I am expected to do.”

“A bit squeamish, hey! got a troublesome conscience?”

“Not particularly—­but there is a limit.”

He slowly lit a fresh cigar, studying the expression of my face in the light, as though deciding upon a course of action.  Neale moved uneasily, but made no attempt to break the silence.  Finally, with a more noticeable drawl in his voice, the man in the armchair began his explanation.

“Very good; we ’ll come down to facts.  It will not take long.  In the first place my name is Vail—­Justus C. Vail.  That may tell you who I am?”

I shook my head negatively.

“No; well, I am a lawyer of some reputation in this State, and my entire interest in this affair is that of legal adviser to Mr. Neale.  With this in mind I will state briefly the peculiar circumstances wherein you are involved.”  He checked the points off carefully with one hand, occasionally glancing at a slip of paper lying on the table as though to refresh his memory.  I listened intently, watching his face, and dimly conscious of Neale’s restlessness.  “Here is the case as submitted to me:  Judge Philo Henley, formerly of the United States Circuit Court, retired at sixty-four and settled upon a large plantation near Carrollton, Alabama.  His wife died soon after, and, a week or so ago,