lighted a cigar. But as he smoked he seemed asking himself a question;
he had not yet found the answer when a footstep was heard and the
subject of his ruminations entered the room. John Steele's face was
paler than it had been; thinner, like that of a man who had recently
suffered some severe illness.

"Ah, Forsythe!" he said, with an assumption of cheeriness. "So good of
you!"

"That's all very well," was the answer. "But what about those?" With his
cigar he indicated vaguely the boxes.

"Those? Not yet all packed, are they? Lazy beggars, your London
servants, just before leaving you!" he laughed.

"See here!" Forsythe looked at him. "You're not well enough yet to--"

"Never felt better!"

"No chance to get you to change your mind, I suppose?"

"Not in the least!"

For a few moments Forsythe said nothing; then, "Weed?" he asked,
offering Steele a cigar.

"Don't believe I'll begin just yet a while."

"Oh!" significantly. "Quite fit, eh?" Forsythe's tone sounded, in the
least, scoffing; John Steele went to the window; stood with his back to