“Come in!” he sang out, without rousing himself, or hardly turning his head. He felt sure of the identity of the new-comer. He could measure, too, the deprecating envy and embarrassment that the contemplation of his serenity and bravado would excite in the wary and timorously suspicious Baintree, and he was in the mood to-night when that display of manly superiority was a grateful solace to his feelings and pride, so seriously jarred by the events of last evening. He did not look up until Baintree was drawing the other rickety chair to the fire, turning toward him an eager, inquiring face, every muscle of which expressed surprise, suspicion, and an earnest plea to disarm criticism. “Howdy do, Jake,” observed Rathburn, enjoying his suspense. “The weather is getting to be ‘some,’ if not more, ain’t it? Listen at the wind, will you.” “The wind’s sorter harsh ter-night,” said Baintree. He sat down quietly in his chair, taking his cue from Rathburn’s manner and emulating his composure. Nevertheless, to the trained medical eye he was showing many symptoms of overwrought nerves, of long, harassing anxiety; he had doubtless been without food, without sleep, for many an hour. Rathburn was conscious that in the coming interview he would derive an advantage from the long, restful slumber in which the day had passed, and which had given brain and will again into his own control. The professional conscience, however, stirred at the sight of physical need. “Get you something to eat, Jake,” he said with his professional manner. “You want it. Must be something on the shelf.” But Baintree, rubbing together his long, thin hands, a trifle chilled, for the temperature without had changed, declared that he was not hungry. “All right,” returned the doctor, lightly. “I can lead a horse to water, but I can’t make him drink.” The last word seemed to remind Baintree that there was a bottle on the shelf as well as food. He got up with his alert, soft step, took a long pull at it, and came back to his comrade with its effects distinctly apparent in the aroma upon his breath and the confidence which it served to impart to his manner. He pushed his hat far back on his sleek black head, rubbed his face once or twice between his hands, and then, leaning his elbows on his knees, he spread out his thin, almost transparent fingers over the blaze. He looked craftily up, presently, at Rathburn, who sat gazing placidly into the fire, one hand stroking his long yellow mustache. Few people could have augured from his easy composure and his debonair grace that he had lately been in danger of his life at the hands of a mob, or that he owed his security to aught that he could plan or compass. “Marcelly Strobe mus’ hev been foolin’ we-uns some. Funnin’, I s’pose,” Baintree hazarded. “She told the truth, as she always does, I am sure.” Baintree’s outspread hands quivered despite the fictitious courage imparted by apple-jack. His eyes dilated.