“The man does not appear like a desperado or outlaw,” he thought. “There is nothing to distinguish him from the majority of men one meets in ordinary intercourse². He is a problem to me, I should like to study him.”

Col. Warner did not fail to observe the unconscious intentness with which Melville regarded him, and, for some reason, it did not please him.

“You have lost your appetite, Mr. Melville,” he said, lightly. “You have been looking at me until—egad!—if I were a vain man, I should conclude there was something striking about my appearance.”

“I won't gainsay³ that, Colonel,” answered Melville, adroitly⁴. “I confess I am not very hungry, and I will further confess that I have something on my mind.”

“Indeed! Better make me your father confessor,” said the colonel, whose suspicion or annoyance⁵ was removed by this ready reply.

“So I may, after a while,” said Melville.

He took the hint, and ceased to regard the colonel.

The latter made himself generally social, and generally popular.

The stage drove round to the door after breakfast, and there was the usual bustle⁶, as the passengers bestowed⁷ themselves inside.

George Melville had intended to watch narrowly the landlord and Col. Warner, to detect, if possible, the secret understanding which must exist between them. But he was deprived of an opportunity, for the very good reason that the landlord had disappeared, and was not again seen before their departure.

The driver gathered up his reins⁹, cracked his whip, and the stage started. Herbert looked at George Melville a little anxiously, not knowing what course he had

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