The passions and the heart he had found intelligible and much the same
from Indus to the Pole.

The people of our tale were like men walking together in a coppice;
they had but glimpses of each others' minds. But to Isaac behind his
flower-pots they were a little human chart spread out flat before him,
and not a region in it he had not traveled and surveyed before to-day:
what to others passed for accident to him was design; he penetrated
more than one disguise of manner; and above all his intelligence bored
like a center-bit into the deep heart of his enemy, Meadows, and at
each turn of the center-bit his eye flashed, his ear lived, and he
crouched patient as a cat, keen as a lynx.

He was forgotten, but not by all.

Meadows, a cautious man, was the one to ask himself, "Where is that
old heathen, and what is he doing?"

To satisfy himself, Meadows had come smoothly to the door of the
little apartment, and burst suddenly into it.

There he found the reverend Israelite extended on a little couch, a
bandana handkerchief thrown over his face, calmly reposing.

Meadows paused, eyed him keenly, listened to his gentle but audible,
equable breathing, relieved his mind by shaking his fist at him, and
went out.

Thirty seconds later Isaac _awoke!_ spat in the direction of
Meadows, and crouched again behind the innocent flowers, patient as a