"Perhaps," said he, "a little candle-light might improve matters."
"Oh," said the intruder, turning with perfect composure toward the sound, "so you are there? I took it for granted that at this hour you'd be abed."
Anthony struck a light and touched it to the wick of a candle; then, the knotted stick in his hand, he stood glowering at his visitor.
"I am sorry to disturb you," said the man. He placed his tall hat upon a table, and seemed quite at his ease. "Also," and he nodded at the cudgel, "I'm quite mortified to have given you alarm."
"You need not disturb yourself about that," said Anthony, grimly. "I'm accustomed to alarms, and also to what follows after." Then, with the sudden cut to his voice which always told of a rising temper, "What the devil do you mean by easing yourself into my room, like this?"
"Sit down," said the man, unruffled. "And let us talk."
"I warn you," said Anthony sharply, "that that won't do. I will not sit down, and I will have no talk with you except upon one subject. What are you doing here?"
The man crossed one leg upon the other and examined Anthony in the candle-light.
"I can see," said he, "that they've spoken the truth. Your temper lifts too quickly for a northern climate. If you'll be advised, you'll go quietly back to—is it New Orleans?"
There was something very clear in the voice; it was the crisp utterance of a man who knew his own mind, and had complete confidence in what he said. Anthony, as he looked at him, saw that he had a slim, elegant figure, that his face was of classic regularity; but there was a cold assurance in the eyes and a sneer about the lips.