“The Major,” continued the Colonel, half closing his eyes as if to follow the Major into the dreamy past, “the old Major, sir, a matter of five or six years ago, was one of my most intimate political friends,—in fact, sir, my most intimate friend. Take a chyar!”
But the stranger had already taken one, and during the Colonel's reminiscence had leaned forward, with his eyes on the ground, discontentedly swinging his soft hat between his legs. “Did you know Tom Frisbee, of Yolo?” he asked abruptly.
“Er—no.”
“Nor even heard anything about Frisbee, nor what happened to him?” continued the man, with aggrieved melancholy.
In point of fact the Colonel did not think that he had.
“Nor anything about his being killed over at Fresno?” said the stranger, with a desponding implication that the interview after all was a failure.
“If—er—if you could—er—give me a hint or two,” suggested the Colonel blandly.
“There wasn't much,” said the stranger, “if you don't remember.” He paused, then rising, he gloomily dragged his chair slowly beside the table, and taking up a paperweight examined it with heavy dissatisfaction. “You see,” he went on slowly, “I killed him—it was a quo'll. He was my pardner, but I reckon he must have drove me hard. Yes, sir,” he added with aggrieved reflection, “I reckon he drove me hard.”
The Colonel smiled courteously, slightly expanding his chest under the homicidal relation, as if, having taken it in and made it a part of himself, he was ready, if necessary, to become personally responsible for it. Then lifting his empty glass to the light, he looked at it with half closed eyes, in polite imitation of his companion's examination of the paper-weight, and set it down again. A casual spectator from the window might have imagined that the two were engaged in an amicable inventory of the furniture.
“And the—er—actual circumstances?” asked the Colonel.