spatulate fingers; and the manner in which his nails had been gnawed
down and his mustache likewise chewed, bespoke a highly nervous
temperament belied by his ruddy, almost boyish face. His age might
have been thirty-five, but he looked one of those men who never fully
grow up, who never can be old.

"Well, what's doing now?" demanded he, fixing blue eyes on his host.
He produced a cigarette and lighted it, inhaled smoke deeply and blew
a thin gray cloud toward the ceiling. "Something big, eh? by the way
you routed me out of a poker-game where I was already forty-seven
dollars and a half to the good. You don't usually call a fellow, that
way, unless there's something in the wind!"

"There is, now."

"Big?"

"Very."

"So?" The newcomer's eyes fell on the pistol. "Yes, that looks like
action, all right. Hope to heaven it _is_! I've been boring myself
and everybody else to death, the past three months. What's up? Duel,
maybe?"

"Yes. That's just it, Bohannan. A duel." And the Master fixed strange
eyes on his companion. His muscular fingers fell to tapping the
prayer-rug on the table, drumming out an impatient little tattoo.

"Duel? Lord's sake, man! With whom?"