I knew I was being watched, though I cannot tell how I knew it. Yet I saw
nothing until I was nearly at our door. I remember I was noticing the
green stain from the brass knocker on its paneling, when my horse snorted
and stopped dead in his tracks. From the overgrown clump of lilacs that
flanked the granite stone which served as a door-step something was
glinting in the sun, and then as I looked more closely, I saw a face
peering at me from between the twigs, a face of light mahogany with thick
lips that showed the presence of negro blood. It was Brutus, my father's
half-caste servant.

Dark and saturnine as ever, he glided out into the path in front of me,
thrusting something back into the sash around his waist, moved toward me,
and took my horse's head. His teeth shone when I spoke to him, but he
said never a word in return to my greeting. There was a touch of Indian
in his blood that made his speech short and laconic. Nevertheless, he was
glad to see me. He grasped my shoulder as I dismounted, and shook me
gently from side to side. His great form loomed before me, his lips
framed in a cheerful grin, his eyes appraising and friendly. And then I
noticed for the first time the livid welt of a cut across his cheek.
Brutus read my glance, but he only shook his head in answer.

"What do you mean, hiding in those bushes?" I asked him roughly.

"Always must see who is coming," said Brutus. "Monsieur may not want to
see who is coming--you understan'?"

"No," I said, "I don't understand."

His grasp on my shoulder tightened.