tradition, as Paul remembered, that Colonel Pendleton had once been
connected with the law--a few French chairs of tarnished gilt, a
rifle in the corner, a presentation sword in a mahogany case, a few
classical prints on the walls, and one or two iron deed-boxes
marked "El Dorado Bank," were the principal objects. A mild flavor
of dry decay and methylated spirits pervaded the apartment. Yet it
was scrupulously clean and well kept, and a few clothes neatly
brushed and folded on a chair bore witness to the servant's care.
As Paul, however, glanced behind the sofa, he was concerned to see
a coat, which had evidently been thrust hurriedly in a corner, with
the sleeve lining inside out, and a needle and thread still
sticking in the seam. It struck him instantly that this had been
the negro's occupation, and that the pistol-cleaning was a polite
fiction.

"Yo' 'll have to skuse Marse Harry seein' yo in bed, but his laig's
pow'ful bad to-day, and he can't stand," said the servant
reentering the room. "Skuse me, sah," he added in a dignified
confidential whisper, half closing the door with his hand, "but if
yo' wouldn't mind avoidin' 'xcitin' or controversical topics in yo'
conversation, it would be de better fo' him."

Paul smilingly assented, and the black retainer, with even more
than the usual solemn ceremonious exaggeration of his race, ushered
him into the bedroom. It was furnished in the same faded glory as
the sitting-room, with the exception of a low, iron camp-bedstead,
in which the tall, soldierly figure of Colonel Pendleton, clad in
threadbare silk dressing-gown, was stretched. He had changed in
eight years: his hair had become gray, and was thinned over the
sunken temples, but his iron-gray moustache was still particularly