s his love
of music, and though he never played for anyone else, men who had come
upon him unawares had heard him playing to himself in a way that was as
surprising as everything else about Coryndon surprised and astonished.

He had dreamed as a boy, and he still dreamed as a man. The subtle
beauty of a line of verse led him into visionary habitations as fair as
any ever disclosed to poet or artist. He could lose himself utterly in
the lights and shadows of a passing day, while he watched for a doomed
man at the entrance of a temple, or brooded over painted sores and cried
to the rich for alms by a dusty roadside; a very different Coryndon to
the Coryndon who looked at Hartley across the white cloth of the round
dinner-table.

The truth about Coryndon was that he read the souls of men. Mhtoon Pah
had boasted to Hartley that he read the walk of the world he looked at,
but Coryndon went much further; and as Hartley talked about outward
things, whilst the Boy and the _Khitmutghar_ flitted in and out behind
them, carrying plates and dishes, his guest was considering him with a
quiet and almost moonstruck gravity of mind. He knew just how far
Hartley could go, and he knew exactly what blocked him. Hartley was tied
into the close meshes of circumstance; he argued from without and worked
inward, and Coryndon had discovered the flaw in this process before he
left his school.

When they were alone at last, Hartley pushed his chair closer to
Coryndon and leaned forward.

"One moment." Coryndon's voice was lowered slightly, and he strolled to
the door.

"Boy," he called, and with amazing alacrity Hartley's servant appeared.

"Tell my servant," he said, speaking in English, "that I want the cigar
tin."

"Do you believe he was listening?"

"I am sure of it."

Hartley flushed angrily, and he was about to speak when Coryndon's man
came into the room, salaaming on the threshold, carrying a black tin.

"Would you like a little stroll in the garden?" said Coryndon. "It would
be pleasant before we sit down," and Hartley followed him out.

"Did you bring any cigars down?"

Hartley spoke for the sake of saying something, more than for any
reasonable desire to know whether Coryndon had done so or not, and his
reply was a low, amused laugh.

"In ten minutes Shiraz will do a little juggling for your servants," he
said placidly. "There are no cigars in the tin. I hope you didn't want
one, Hartley? He will probably tell them tha