him I commanded a merchant vessel at present anchored in Rushcutters’ Bay.  He had “remarked” her,—­a pretty little craft.  He was very civil about it in his impassive way.  I even fancy he went the length of tilting his head in compliment as he repeated, breathing visibly the while, “Ah, yes.  A little craft painted black—­very pretty—­very pretty (tres coquet).”  After a time he twisted his body slowly to face the glass door on our right.  “A dull town (triste ville),” he observed, staring into the street.  It was a brilliant day; a southerly buster was raging, and we could see the passers-by, men and women, buffeted by the wind on the sidewalks, the sunlit fronts of the houses across the road blurred by the tall whirls of dust.  “I descended on shore,” he said, “to stretch my legs a little, but . . .”  He didn’t finish, and sank into the depths of his repose.  “Pray—­tell me,” he began, coming up ponderously, “what was there at the bottom of this affair—­precisely (au juste)?  It is curious.  That dead man, for instance—­and so on.”

’"There were living men too,” I said; “much more curious.”

’"No doubt, no doubt,” he agreed half audibly, then, as if after mature consideration, murmured, “Evidently.”  I made no difficulty in communicating to him what had interested me most in this affair.  It seemed as though he had a right to know:  hadn’t he spent thirty hours on board the Palna—­had he not taken the succession, so to speak, had he not done “his possible”?  He listened to me, looking more priest-like than ever, and with what—­probably on account of his downcast eyes—­had the appearance of devout concentration.  Once or twice he elevated his eyebrows (but without raising his eyelids), as one would say “The devil!” Once he calmly exclaimed, “Ah, bah!” under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle.

’In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat.  What he said at last was nothing more than a “Very interesting,” pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper.  Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, “That’s it.  That is it.”  His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat.  I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt.  “And so that poor young man ran away along with the others,” he said, with grave tranquillity.