The soft man laughed. If anything, his laugh was the softest thing about him. As Bat listened to the laugh, and looked at the man’s eyes, which were green and cold and steady, he felt his scalp prickle with something like dread. But he puffed quietly at his cigarette; and, from his manner, such a feeling was no nearer to him than the poles.
“Oh, yes, to be sure,” said the soft-looking man. “He was quite right. It is very stately—most charming, and adds to the picturesqueness of the locality.” From where they stood the towers of Schwartzberg were to be seen through the naked trees; and one fat, white finger pointed to them. “The moon, now,” said the man, “must play about those portions of the building very strikingly when it is at its full.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Bat.
“In fact,” said the other, “night hereabouts must be very different in many ways.”
Bat agreed.
“As to that,” said he, “I don’t know but what I agree with you. It is different.”
The soft man moved softly nearer; there was an eagerness under his smooth manner that was not lost upon Scanlon.
“I love the night,” said he. “It is rather an old-fashioned thing to do, I admit; but I love it, for all that. In these times when the electric lights have robbed the heavens of their stars, and put out the very moon, there are few who admire the night. But I love to walk in it, to watch the canopy, to reflect upon the vastness of the universe.”
“I was brought up in Kansas,” said Bat, “and in the days when there was no end of stars, plenty of moon, and lots of chance for them to show themselves. But to me, night was made to sleep in, and the only use I had for either moon or stars was to see my way home by, if I happened to be out after hours.”
“Is it possible that you never walk out—here?” The soft man seemed appalled, but the cold green eyes were as watchful as those of a cat. “Is it possible that you never hear—from your window, perhaps—the whispering of the night?”