"Ah, it's certainly a good place for resting." Then, after a pause: "You're married, I think you said."
Chip didn't remember having said so, and replied to that effect. The stranger was unperturbed.
"No? But you are?" By way of pressing the question, he added, with a glance at Chip through the moonlight: "Aren't you?"
"I've a wife and little boy in New York," Walker answered, soberly.
"Ah!" There was no emphasis on this exclamation. It signified merely that a certain point in their mutual understanding had been reached. "A happy marriage must be a great—safeguard."
The tone was of a man making a moral reflection calmly, but Chip was startled again. It was his turn to stare through the moonlight, where the length of the bench lay between them. He felt that he was being challenged, but that he must not betray himself too soon. "Safeguard against what, sir?"
There was a faint laugh, or what might have been a laugh had there been amusement in it. "Against everything from which a married man needs protection."
Chip would have dropped the subject but for that sense that a challenge was being thrown him before which he could not back down. Nevertheless, he determined to keep from committing himself as long as possible. "I'm not sure that I know what you mean."
The stranger seemed to examine the burning end of his cigar. "Oh, nothing but the obvious things—pursuing another man's wife, for instance. A man who's happily married doesn't do that."
There was no aggression in the tone, and yet Chip felt a curious chill. Who was this man, and what the devil was he driving at? It was all he could do to answer coolly, knocking the ash off the end of his own cigar: "And yet, I've known of such cases."