The truth about Coryndon was that he read the souls of men. Mhtoon Pah had boasted to Hartley that he read the walk of the world he looked at, but Coryndon went much further; and as Hartley talked about outward things, whilst the Boy and the Khitmutghar flitted in and out behind them, carrying plates and dishes, his guest was considering him with a quiet and almost moonstruck gravity of mind. He knew just how far Hartley could go, and he knew exactly what blocked him. Hartley was tied into the close meshes of circumstance; he argued from without and worked inward, and Coryndon had discovered the flaw in this process before he left his school.
When they were alone at last, Hartley pushed his chair closer to Coryndon and leaned forward.
"One moment." Coryndon's voice was lowered slightly, and he strolled to the door.
"Boy," he called, and with amazing alacrity Hartley's servant appeared.
"Tell my servant," he said, speaking in English, "that I want the cigar tin."
"Do you believe he was listening?"
"I am sure of it."
Hartley flushed angrily, and he was about to speak when Coryndon's man came into the room, salaaming on the threshold, carrying a black tin.
"Would you like a little stroll in the garden?" said Coryndon. "It would be pleasant before we sit down," and Hartley followed him out.
"Did you bring any cigars down?"