Watson came forward with outstretched hand.
“How are you, Colonel Hallibut?” he said.
“Why, I hardly expected to see you, at least not in the flesh,” rejoined the Colonel, ignoring the hand. “Haven’t found that six hundred in any of your pockets, I suppose?”
Watson started.
“I have not,” he answered sullenly, a slow flush dyeing his face. “I don’t hope to, either. You know, of course, that the Bushwhackers stole the money.”
“So you said in your touching letter,” replied the Colonel, “but I expect you to repay it—every cent of it. I’ll give you two weeks. Smythe,” he asked, turning to that gentleman, “how is it Watson isn’t dead and buried! I understood you to say he was anxious to die and in a fair way of doing it.”
“Man proposes and God disposes,” said Smythe piously.
“Humph,” returned Hallibut, “it’s too bad the men who tried to dispose of Watson didn’t make a clean job of it.”
“Come into the other part,” invited Smythe, “dinner is all ready, sir.”
The Colonel sat down to the table, placing his rifle close beside his chair.