Madison's eyes, slowly, as though loath to leave the Patriarch's face, travelled over the gray homespun suit that clothed the man, the white wristbands of the home-washed shirt, unstarched, but spotlessly clean--and his fancy of flowing, Grecian robes with rope girdles seemed to hold him up to mockery as a crude and paltry bungler before the perfect, unostentatious harmony of reality. "There's nothing to it!" whispered Madison softly to himself. "Nothing to it! There isn't a thing left to do--not even a chance of making a bluff at earning the money--it's just like _stealing_ it. Why, say, it would get _me_ if I weren't behind the scenes--honest now, it would!" Madison drew back from the window and walked toward the door of the cottage. "It should take me about fifteen minutes to establish myself on the basis of a long-lost son with the Patriarch clinging confidingly around my neck," he observed. "If it takes me any longer than that I'd feel depressed every time I met myself in the looking-glass." He reached the cottage door, and, lifting the brass knocker that shone dimly in the darkness, knocked once, lifted it to knock again--and his hand fell away as he smiled a little foolishly. "I forgot the Patriarch was deaf," he muttered. "Wonder what you're supposed to do? Walk right in, or--" The door swung suddenly wide open, and upon Madison's face, usually so perfectly at its owner's control, came a look of stunned surprise. The Patriarch was standing on the threshold, and, with a gesture of welcome, was motioning him to enter. --V-- A STRANGE CONVERSATION Madison, quite in command of himself again in an instant, stepped, smiling, into the cottage. He took the Patriarch's extended hand in a cordial grip and nodded understandingly as the other, with quick, rapid motions, touched lips and ears to signify that he could neither hear nor speak. But, inwardly puzzled, Madison searched the Patriarch's face--was the other playing a part? Could he _hear_, after all--and perhaps speak as well, if he wanted to! There was certainly no guile in the venerable, gentle face--or was it guile of a very high order? The Patriarch closed the door, and drawing his own armchair to the table offered it to Madison with a courteous smile. Madison refused by gently forcing the old man into it himself, pulled another up to face the Patriarch, sat down--and his eyes fixed suddenly on the ceiling above his head. Swaying slowly back and forth was a sort of miniature punkah of waving white canvas. He studied this for a moment, then his eyes shifted to the Patriarch, who was regarding him humorously.