He opened a door, led Justus Miles through an inner room, knocked at a far door and ushered him into the presence of a man who sat behind a roll-topped desk. There was something odd about this old man, and after a moment's inspection Justus Miles saw what it was. He was evidently a cripple, propped up in a strange wheelchair. He had an abnormally large and hairless head, and his body was muffled to the throat in a voluminous cloak, the folds of which fell over and enveloped most of the wheelchair itself. The face of this old gentleman — though the features were finely molded — was swarthy: its color was almost that of a negro — or an Egyptian. He regarded the two men with large and peculiarly colored eyes — eyes that probed them sharply.
"Well, Ward, what is it?"
"The man you advertised for, Mr. Solino."
S olino regarded Justus Miles critically.
"You have been a soldier of fortune?" he asked. He spoke English with the preciseness of an educated foreigner.
"Yes, sir. Rusty — that is, Mr. Ward knows my record."
"I was his sergeant in France, sir; saw fighting with him in Morocco, Turkey, Nicaragua—"
"You can vouch for him, then; his character, courage—"
"You couldn't get a better man, sir. If I had known he was in town I would have sent for him."
"Very well; that is sufficient. But Mr. — Miles did you say? — understands he is embarking on a dangerous adventure with grave chances of losing his life?"