“Yes,” said Magnus after a while, “yes, all right. I am going away. I've come to say good-bye. No—” He interrupted himself with a deprecatory smile, “YOU said THAT, didn't you?”
“Well, you are going away, too, your wife tells me.”
“Yes, I'm going away. I can't stay on...” he hesitated a long time, groping for the right word, “I can't stay on—on—what's the name of this place?”
“Los Muertos,” put in Presley.
“No, it isn't. Yes, it is, too, that's right, Los Muertos. I don't know where my memory has gone to of late.”
“Well, I hope you will be better soon, Governor.”
As Presley spoke the words, S. Behrman entered the room, and the Governor sprang up with unexpected agility and stood against the wall, drawing one long breath after another, watching the railroad agent with intent eyes.
S. Behrman saluted both men affably and sat down near the desk, drawing the links of his heavy watch chain through his fat fingers.
“There wasn't anybody outside when I knocked, but I heard your voice in here, Governor, so I came right in. I wanted to ask you, Governor, if my carpenters can begin work in here day after to-morrow. I want to take down that partition there, and throw this room and the next into one. I guess that will be O. K., won't it? You'll be out of here by then, won't you?”
There was no vagueness about Magnus's speech or manner now. There was that same alertness in his demeanour that one sees in a tamed lion in the presence of its trainer.