Witham stood very still. “It was the simple truth I told you, sir,” he said. “Don’t make it too hard for me.”
Just then there was a disturbance at the rear of the room, and a man, who shook off the grasp of one that followed him, came in. He moved forward with uneven steps, and then, resting his hand on a chair-back, faced about and looked at Witham. The dust was thick upon his clothes, but it was his face that seized and held attention. It was horribly pallid, save for the flush that showed in either cheek, and his half-closed eyes were dazed.
“I heard them cheering,” he said. “Couldn’t find you at your homestead. You should have sent the five hundred dollars. They would have saved you this.”
The defective utterance would alone have attracted attention, and, with the man’s attitude, was very significant, but it was equally evident to most of those who watched him that he was also struggling with some infirmity. Western hospitality has, however, no limit, and one of the younger men drew out a chair.
“Hadn’t you better sit down, and if you want anything to eat we’ll get it you,” he said. “Then you can tell us what your errand is.”
The man made a gesture of negation, and pointed to Witham.
“I came to find a friend of mine. They told me at his homestead that he was here,” he said.
There was an impressive silence, until Colonel Barrington glanced at Witham, who still stood, quietly impassive, at the foot of the table.
“You know our visitor?” he said. “The Grange is large enough to give a stranger shelter.”
The man laughed. “Of course, he does! It’s my place he’s living in!”