“I am glad to know you.”
He did not offer his hand, Hinkley noted. He stood quietly, looking at the ship. Broughton came back at this juncture, his eyes taking in the massive figure of the newcomer with slow appraisal.
There is an unconscious respect and curiosity engendered in even the most unemotional person by any man who is noted—or notorious. A great criminal, a great artist, a champion chess-player, the survivor of a widely heralded accident—anything unusual draws its meed of attention. Hayden, without the benefit of his reputation, was an arresting man. With it, he repaid study.
“I am very sorry, colonel, but we have but little food here—scarcely enough for our party. I will have some one guide you down to Elm Hill, where you will be more comfortable,” Hayden said at length.
“We have a little food in the ship. It’s getting late, and we’ll just sleep out here under the wings,” returned Graves quietly.
Suddenly a devil peered forth from Hayden’s eyes. The softness was gone, and savagery was there instead.
Graves looked into that queerly demoniac face without emotion. Apparently he did not feel the sudden tenseness that had every one in its grip. All felt the battle of wills going on there—that there was something underneath which did not appear on the surface.
“I think I’ll turn the ship around and head it into the wind,” came Broughton’s quiet voice.
It broke the tension. Graves turned to Broughton and Hinkley.
“I think it would be best. We’ll give you a hand on the wing—it’s a narrow place to turn in,” he remarked casually.