One was his complexion. He had that build which leads one to expect floridity of face, a rubicund countenance or, at least, ruddy cheeks. But he was dead pale, with a peculiar tint I never had seen before. His face showed an abundance of solid muscle and over it a skin roughened by exposure, toughened, even hardened by wind and sun. Yet its color was not in agreement with its texture. It had the hue which belongs to waxy skin over suety, tallowy flesh, an opaque whiteness, a pallidity almost corpse-like. The second was his glance: keen, glittering, hard, blue-gray eyes he had, gallant and far younger than himself. But it was not the handsome eyes so much as their way of looking that whetted our attention. They pierced us through and through, they darted incessantly here and there, they peered to right and left, they kept us generally in view, indeed, and never let us feel that his attention wandered from us, yet they incessantly swept the world about him. You should say they saw all they looked at, looked at everything seeable. The third was his belt, a mellowed old belt of pig-skin, with two capacious holsters, from each of which protruded the butt of a large-calibre revolver. He greeted us in the spirit of old comradeship renewed. Behind him Jeff and Cato grinned from their tired mounts. He sat his big horse with no sign of fatigue and surveyed the landscape from the cross-roads’ knoll where we had met him. “I seem to recall the landmarks here,” he said, “the left hand road by which you came, would take me through to Brexington.” Beverly confirmed his recollection. “The one straight ahead,” he went on, “goes past the big new distillery you wrote me about.” “Right again,” I said. “The road to the right,” he continued, “will take us by the old mill, and I can swing round to my camp without nearing town.” “You could,” Beverly told. “But it is a long way round.” “Not too far for me,” he announced positively. “No towns or distilleries for me. I go round. Will you ride with me, gentlemen?” We rode with him. On the way I told him I expected him to supper that evening. “With all my writing, Radford,” he said. “You don’t seem to get the idea. I flock by myself for the present and eat alone. If you insist I’ll explain to-morrow.” Beverly and I left him to his camp supper. Dr. Boone and Mr. Hall were a good deal taken aback upon learning that their imagined invalid had no existence and that the real Colonel Case needed neither medical assistance nor spiritual solace. We four sat for some time expressing our bewilderment. Next morning I drove out to Case’s Camp. I found him sitting in his tent, the flaps of which were looped up all around. He was as pale as the day before. As I approached I saw him scrutinize me with a searching gaze, a gaze I found it difficult to analyze.