"I can see," said he, "that they've spoken the truth. Your temper lifts too quickly for a northern climate. If you'll be advised, you'll go quietly back to--is it New Orleans?" There was something very clear in the voice; it was the crisp utterance of a man who knew his own mind, and had complete confidence in what he said. Anthony, as he looked at him, saw that he had a slim, elegant figure, that his face was of classic regularity; but there was a cold assurance in the eyes and a sneer about the lips. "Once more," said Anthony, "what are you doing here?" He took a step forward, and his right hand closed about the handle of the stick. "Jocular reflections upon my temper, and impertinent advice, are not answers. Come, now!" The intruder smiled, easily. "I suppose," said he, "you are one who prides himself upon sticking to a point. It's a good quality, enough; but one should never permit such a thing to blind one to matters of more interest." He looked at Anthony with the same easy smile, and through it were the sneer and the cold confidence of the eyes. "This port is no place for you," he said. "Be advised. There is a ship sailing to-morrow for Havana; from there to New Orleans is no distance at all." Anthony waited for no more. Like a wolf he was upon the other and had hauled him to his feet; then the iron-shod stick lashed out, showering blows upon the man's head and shoulders. Overwhelmed by the suddenness of the attack, the intruder fell back against the wall; Anthony threw open the door, seized him by the scruff of the neck, much as one might an offending cur, and, without a word, pitched him into the hall, and his hat after him and slammed the door. Then he stood his weapon in a corner, put out the candle, got back into bed and fell instantly asleep. Quite early in the morning he arose; he descended the stairs briskly, his mind fully made up as to what he should do. He ate his breakfast of hot eggs, and cold sliced ham, and breast of fowl; and he drank his tea. Then he took up the knotted stick and went stumping determinedly through the bar on his way to the street. "Mr. Stevens!" It was the landlord who hailed him, a man with a paunch of fine proportions, and the face of a serious cherub. Anthony stopped. "Last night," said the host solemnly, "you engaged in an altercation. I do not know the merits of the case, sir, but Mr. Tarrant will, I think, send some one during the day to meet you." "Is Mr. Tarrant the gentleman whom I was compelled to pitch out of my room?" "He claims that you mishandled him; but just how or why he did not say. Should he," and the landlord's cherubic countenance was filled with interest, "send a friend to converse with you, and you should chance to be out, what report am I to give of you?" "None," said Anthony curtly. "I am not at the beck and call of Mr. Tarrant, or any of his friends."