"And that proved?"
"A combative instinct, and coolness; not the sort of brute vindictiveness that fights for a rage, for a cool-minded love of conflict. Is that clear?"
Donnegan shrugged his shoulders.
"And above all, I need a fighter. Then I watched your eyes and your hands. The first were direct and yet they were alert. And your hands were perfectly steady."
"Qualifications for a fighter, eh?"
"Do you wish further proof?"
"Well?"
"What of the fight to the death which you went through this same night?"
Donnegan started. It was a small movement, that flinching, and he covered it by continuing the upward gesture of his hand to his coat; he drew out tobacco and cigarette papers and commenced to roll his smoke. Looking up, he saw that the eyes of Colonel Macon were smiling, although his face was grave.
A glint of understanding passed between the two men, but not a spoken word.