furnishings, the condition of the two men—­with the rapidity and minuteness of a sensitized plate.  Ironic chance had chosen an unpropitious night for his call.  Intoxication surrounding a bar, under the stimulus of numbers, and preceding or following some exciting event, he could understand, could, perhaps, condone; but this solitary dissipation, drunkenness for its own sake, was something new to him.  The observing eyes fastened themselves upon the host’s face.

“In response to your invitation,” he said evenly, “I’ve called.”

Sidwell roused himself.  His face flushed.  Despite the liquor in his brain, he felt the inauspicious chance of the meeting.

“Glad you did,” he said, with an attempt at ease.  “Deucedly glad.  I don’t know of anyone in the world I’d rather see.  Just speaking of you, weren’t we?” he said, appealing to Hough.  “By the way, Mr.—­er—­Blair, shake hands with Mr. Hough, Mr. Winston Hough.  Mighty good fellow, Hough, but a bit melancholy.  Needs cheering up a bit now and then.  Needed it badly to-night—­almost cried for it, in fact”; and the speaker smiled convivially.

Hough extended his hand with elaborate formality.  “Delighted to meet you,” he managed to articulate.

“Thank you,” returned the other shortly.

Sidwell meanwhile was bringing a third chair and glass.  “Come over, gentlemen,” he invited, “and we’ll celebrate this, the proudest moment of my life.  You drink, of course, Mr. Blair?”

Ben did not stir.  “Thank you, but I never drink,” he said.

“What!” Sidwell smiled sceptically.  “A cattle-man, and not refresh yourself with good liquor?  You refute all the precedents!  Come over and take something!”

Ben only looked at him steadily.  “I repeat, I never drink,” he said conclusively.

Sidwell sat down, and Hough followed his lead.

“All right, all right!  Have a cigar, then.  At least you smoke?”

“Yes,” assented Blair, “I smoke—­sometimes.”

The host extended the box hospitably.  “Help yourself.  They’re good ones, I’ll answer for that.  I import them myself.”

Ben took a step forward, but his hands were still in his pockets.  “Mr. Sidwell,” he said, “we may as well save time and try to understand each other.  In some ways I am a bit like an Indian.  I never smoke except with a friend, and I am not sure you are a friend of mine.  To be candid with you, I believe you are not.”

Hough stirred in his chair, but Sidwell remained impassive save that the convivial smile vanished.

A quarter of a minute passed.  Once the host took up his glass as if to drink, but put it down untasted.  At last he indicated the vacant chair.

“Won’t you be seated?” he invited.

Ben sat down.

“You say,” continued Sidwell, “that I am not your friend.  The statement and your actions carry the implication that of necessity, then, we must be enemies.”