I should like to introduce Jarrett to my readers, for he was a most extraordinary man. He was then about sixty-five or seventy years of age. He was tall with a face like King Agamemnon, framed by the most beautiful silver-white hair I have even seen on a man’s head. His eyes were of so pale a blue that when they lighted up with anger he looked as though he were blind. When he was calm and tranquil, admiring nature, his face was really handsome, but when gay and animated his upper lip showed his teeth, and curled up in a most ferocious sniff, and his grin seemed to be caused by the drawing up of his pointed ears which were always moving as though on the watch for prey. He was a terrible man, extremely intelligent, but from childhood he must have been fighting with the world, and he had the most profound contempt for all mankind. Although he must have suffered a great deal himself, he had no pity for those who suffered. He always said that every man was armed for his own defense. He pitied women, did not care for them, but was always ready to help them. He was very rich, and very economical, but not miserly. “I made my way in life,” he often said to me, “by the aid of two weapons: honesty and a revolver. In business honesty is the most terrible weapon a man can use against rascals and crafty people—the former don’t know what it is, and the latter do not believe in it—while the revolver is an admirable invention for compelling scoundrels to keep their word.” He used to tell me about wonderful and terrifying adventures. He had a deep scar under his right eye. During a violent discussion about a contract to be signed for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer, Jarrett said to his interlocutor, pointing at the same time to his right eye: “Look at that eye, sir, it is now reading in your mind all that you are not saying.” “It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it never foresaw that,” said the other firing his revolver at Jarrett’s right eye. “A bad shot, sir,” replied Jarrett, “this is the way to take aim for effectually closing an eye,” and he put a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell down dead. When Jarrett told this story, his lip curled up and his two incisors appeared to be crunching the words with delight, and his bursts of stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of his jaws. He was an upright, honest man, though, and I liked him very much, and like what I remember of him.