quiet and almost moonstruck gravity of mind. He knew just how far
Hartley could go, and he knew exactly what blocked him. Hartley was tied
into the close meshes of circumstance; he argued from without and worked
inward, and Coryndon had discovered the flaw in this process before he
left his school.

When they were alone at last, Hartley pushed his chair closer to
Coryndon and leaned forward.

"One moment." Coryndon's voice was lowered slightly, and he strolled to
the door.

"Boy," he called, and with amazing alacrity Hartley's servant appeared.

"Tell my servant," he said, speaking in English, "that I want the cigar
tin."

"Do you believe he was listening?"

"I am sure of it."

Hartley flushed angrily, and he was about to speak when Coryndon's man
came into the room, salaaming on the threshold, carrying a black tin.

"Would you like a little stroll in the garden?" said Coryndon. "It would
be pleasant before we sit down," and Hartley followed him out.

"Did you bring any cigars down?"

Hartley spoke for the sake of saying something, more than for any