Montague delivered his message, and then went upstairs to wait until his own party should be ready to leave. In the smoking-room were a number of men, also waiting; and among them he noticed Major Venable, in conversation with a man whom he did not know. “Come over here,” the Major called; and Montague obeyed, at the same time noticing the stranger. He was a tall, loose-jointed, powerfully built man, a small head and a very striking face: a grim mouth with drooping corners tightly set, and a hawk-like nose, and deep-set, peering eyes. “Have you met Mr. Hegan?” said the Major. “Hegan, this is Mr. Allan Montague.” Jim Hegan! Montague repressed a stare and took the chair which they offered him. “Have a cigar,” said Hegan, holding out his case. “Mr. Montague has just come to New York,” said the Major. “He is a Southerner, too.” “Indeed?” said Hegan, and inquired what State he came from. Montague replied, and added, “I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter last week, at the Horse Show.” That served to start a conversation; for Hegan came from Texas, and when he found that Montague knew about horses—real horses—he warmed to him. Then the Major’s party called him away, and the other two were left to carry on the conversation. It was very easy to chat with Hegan; and yet underneath, in the other’s mind, there lurked a vague feeling of trepidation, as he realized that he was chatting with a hundred millions of dollars. Montague was new enough at the game to imagine that there ought to be something strange, some atmosphere of awe and mystery, about a man who was master of a dozen railroads and of the politics of half a dozen States. He was simple and very kindly in his manner, a plain man, interested in plain things. There was about him, as he talked, a trace of timidity, almost of apology, which Montague noticed and wondered at. It was only later, when he had time to think about it, that he realized that Hegan had begun as a farmer’s boy in Texas, a “poor white”; and could it be that after all these years an instinct remained in him, so that whenever he met a gentleman of the old South he stood by with a little deference, seeming to beg pardon for his hundred millions of dollars? And yet there was the power of the man. Even chatting about horses, you felt it; you felt that there was a part of him which did not chat, but which sat behind and watched. And strangest of all, Montague found himself fancying that behind the face that smiled was another face, that did not smile, but that was grim and set. It was a strange face, with its broad, sweeping eyebrows and its drooping mouth; it haunted Montague and made him feel ill at ease.