“You have symptoms of clairvoyance at times, I take it.”  The conscious, smooth superiority of the dexterous man playing with an inconsequent opponent resounded in this speech, clear as the humming of a struck bell; and Vilas shot him a single open glance of fire from hectic eyes.  For that instant, the frailer buck trumpeted challenge.  Corliss—­broad-shouldered, supple of waist, graceful and strong—­smiled down negligently; yet the very air between the two men seemed charged with an invisible explosive.  Ray laughed quickly, as in undisturbed good nature; then, flourishing his stick, turned toward the door.

“Oh, no, it isn’t clairvoyance—­no more than when I told you that your only real interest is women.”  He paused, his hand upon the door-knob.  “I’m a quaint mixture, however:  perhaps I should be handled with care.”

“Very good of you,” laughed Corliss—­“this warning.  The afternoon I had the pleasure of meeting you I think I remember your implying that you were a mere marionette.”

“A haggard harlequin!” snapped Vilas, waving his hand to a mirror across the room.  “Don’t I look it?” And the phrase fitted him with tragic accuracy.  “You see?  What a merry wedding-guest I’ll be!  I invite you to join me on the nuptial eve.”

“Thanks.  Who’s getting married:  when the nuptial eve?”

Ray opened the door, and, turning, rolled his eyes fantastically.  “Haven’t you heard?” he cried.  “When Hecate marries John Barleycorn!” He bowed low.  “Mr. Midas, adieu.”

Corliss stood in the doorway and watched him walk down the long hall to the elevator.  There, Ray turned and waved his hand, the other responding with gayety which was not assumed:  Vilas might be insane, or drunk, or both, but the signature upon his cheque was unassailable.

Corliss closed the door and began to pace his apartment thoughtfully.  His expression manifested a peculiar phenomenon.  In company, or upon the street, or when he talked with men, the open look and frank eyes of this stalwart young man were disarming and his most winning assets.  But now, as he paced alone in his apartment, now that he was not upon exhibition, now when there was no eye to behold him, and there was no reason to dissimulate or veil a single thought or feeling, his look was anything but open; the last trace of frankness disappeared; the muscles at mouth and eyes shifted; lines and planes intermingled and altered subtly; there was a moment of misty transformation—­and the face of another man emerged.  It was the face of a man uninstructed in mercy; it was a shrewd and planning face:  alert, resourceful, elaborately perceptive, and flawlessly hard.  But, beyond all, it was the face of a man perpetually on guard.

He had the air of debating a question, his hands in his pockets, his handsome forehead lined with a temporary indecision.  His sentry-go extended the length of his two rooms, and each time he came back into his bedroom his glance fell consideringly upon a steamer-trunk of the largest size, at the foot of his bed.  The trunk was partially packed as if for departure.  And, indeed, it was the question of departure which he was debating.