Seated in a wooden armchair before a table covered with books and papers, yet with that apparently haughty attitude towards it affected by gentlemen of abdominal fullness, Colonel Starbottle supported himself with one hand grasping the arm of his chair and the other vigorously plying a huge palm-leaf fan. He was perspiring freely. He had taken off his characteristic blue frock-coat, waistcoat, cravat, and collar, and, stripped only to his ruffled shirt and white drill trousers, presented the appearance from the opposite side of the table of having hastily risen to work in his nightgown. A glass with a thin sediment of sugar and lemon-peel remaining in it stood near his elbow. Suddenly a black shadow fell on the staring, uncarpeted hall. It was that of a stranger who had just entered from the noiseless dust of the deserted road. The Colonel cast a rapid glance at his sword-cane, which lay on the table. But the stranger, although sallow and morose-looking, was evidently of pacific intent. He paused on the threshold in a kind of surly embarrassment. “I reckon this is Colonel Starbottle,” he said at last, glancing gloomily round him, as if the interview was not entirely of his own seeking. “Well, I've seen you often enough, though you don't know me. My name's Jo Corbin. I guess,” he added, still discontentedly, “I have to consult you about something.” “Corbin?” repeated the Colonel in his jauntiest manner. “Ah! Any relation to old Maje Corbin of Nashville, sir?” “No,” said the stranger briefly. “I'm from Shelbyville.” “The Major,” continued the Colonel, half closing his eyes as if to follow the Major into the dreamy past, “the old Major, sir, a matter of five or six years ago, was one of my most intimate political friends,--in fact, sir, my most intimate friend. Take a chyar!” But the stranger had already taken one, and during the Colonel's reminiscence had leaned forward, with his eyes on the ground, discontentedly swinging his soft hat between his legs. “Did you know Tom Frisbee, of Yolo?” he asked abruptly. “Er--no.” “Nor even heard anything about Frisbee, nor what happened to him?” continued the man, with aggrieved melancholy. In point of fact the Colonel did not think that he had. “Nor anything about his being killed over at Fresno?” said the stranger, with a desponding implication that the interview after all was a failure. “If--er--if you could--er--give me a hint or two,” suggested the Colonel blandly. “There wasn't much,” said the stranger, “if you don't remember.” He paused, then rising, he gloomily dragged his chair slowly beside the table, and taking up a paperweight examined it with heavy dissatisfaction. “You see,” he went on slowly, “I killed him--it was a quo'll. He was my pardner, but I reckon he must have drove me hard. Yes, sir,” he added with aggrieved reflection, “I reckon he drove me hard.”