horse--the only man I've seen here who does. _Get out_! Don't ask why.
You're safe now. You're not safe here another day. Water your horse; eat
your breakfast; then _get out_!"

And not another word did I extract. I watered my horse at the covered
trough, and rather thoughtfully returned to the courtyard.

I found there Old Man Hooper waiting. He looked as bland and innocent
and harmless as the sunlight on his own flagstones--until he gazed up at
me, and then I was as usual disconcerted by the blank, veiled, unwinking
stare of his eyes.

"Remarkably fine Morgan stallion you have, sir," I greeted him. "I
didn't know such a creature existed in this part of the world."

But the little man displayed no gratification.

"He's well enough. I have him more to keep Tim happy than anything else.
We'll go in to breakfast."

I cast a cautious eye at the barred window in the left wing. The
curtains were still down. At the table I ventured to ask after Miss
Hooper. The old man stared at me up to the point of embarrassment, then
replied drily that she always breakfasted in her room. The rest of our
conversation was on general topics. I am bound to say it was
unexpectedly easy. The old man was a good talker, and possessed social
ease and a certain charm, which he seemed to be trying to exert. Among
other things, I remember, he told me of the Indian councils he used to
hold in the old days.