“China man?”
“No China man. White man. Too big.”
Brachey sprang up; dropped his book on the table with a bang; brushed John aside and opened the door. The only light out there came slanting down from a brilliant moon. Dimly outlined as shadowy masses were the now familiar objects of the inn courtyard—the row of pack-saddles over by the stable, the darkly moving heads of the horses ami mules behind the long manger, the two millstones on their rough standard; above these the roofs of curving tile and a glimpse of young foliage. Then, after a moment, he sensed movement and peered across, beyond the stable, toward the street gates. A man was approaching; a huge figure of a man, six feet five or six inches in height, broad of shoulder, firm of tread; stood now before him. He carried something like a soldier's pack on his back.
“Why did you come here?”
Brachey on the door-step found his eyes level with those of his caller.
“Mr. Brachcy?” The voice had the ring of power in it. Brachey's nerves tightened.
“Yes.”
“I am Mr. Doane.”
“Will you please come in?”
John slipped away. Doane entered; moved to the table; turned. Brachey closed the door and faced him.