“Yours, as of yore,
“Melville Barrett.”
For a moment after finishing the letter Leighton stood dumfounded, his mind swiftly gathering up the threads of long-forgotten experiences and friendships. It was now almost thirty years since he and Melville Barrett had chummed together at college, but the letter and the signature were enough to recall the brilliant, luckless fellow who had been Leighton’s roommate during the latter’s senior year. As nearly as he could remember, Barrett, in spite of his mental gifts, had never got on in the world, and, at last accounts, had gone West where he had dropped out of sight apparently for good and all. And now, behold, he had turned up again in the character of a landed proprietor! Had Barrett at last struck it rich?
Five hours later when, after a drive in a well-appointed landau through a winding avenue, the carriage stopped at a big colonial mansion, and Leighton was ushered into an imposing hallway, carpeted with oriental rugs and decorated with tropical plants and curios from many lands, his mind recurred to the same question. And during the dinner that followed, served by well-trained servants, in a tapestry-hung dining-room, and the hour spent examining the rare plants in the adjoining conservatory, Leighton found himself varying the question by the mental inquiry,—“How had Barrett struck it rich?”
For an answer to this question he had not long to wait. As the two men sat together before the open fire in the library, over their Havanas and after-dinner, coffee, reviving the experiences of years ago, Barrett suddenly exclaimed, turning to his companion:—
“I suppose you are surprised to find me, at last, a property holder, instead of the luckless, poverty-stricken chap you used to know. Very likely, you’ve been wondering whether I have fallen heir to a fortune.” Then, hardly noticing his friend’s evasive answer, he continued: “I have come into a fortune, but not through the death of friend or relative. In fact, the manner in which it was gained was so extraordinary that neither I nor the friend who shared the adventure have cared to speak about it. And people simply know that, like so many others, we struck it rich in the land of gold. But you, who were the companion of my college days, and so know that I never took any stock in the supernatural, will, I am sure, believe what I have to tell you, especially as I hold the proof. If its duplicate can be produced by human hands, then I am ready to accept any commonplace explanation that the maker may offer.
“The whole thing is as great a mystery to me to-day as when it happened, eighteen years ago. My friend Mitchell and I had been hunting in the mountains of Southern California for a couple of weeks, and were returning by easy stages to the stock ranch where we both were employed. One evening, about the third day of our journey, we made camp in one of the most picturesque spots in all that beautiful country. A deep green valley stretched before us, high, snow-crowned mountains on either side, while far away down the silver stream that flowed through the valley could be seen the undulating country of the grape and orange—a full hundred miles away.
“Mitchell had finished his duties as cook, and we had despatched a delicious supper of broiled venison, potatoes, and coffee, just as the sun was sinking beyond our vision. The camp fire gave forth a cheery glow as we sat and smoked our pipes, recounting the day’s sport; while every now and then the stillness was broken by the deep howl of a gray mountain wolf,—a blood-chilling sound even to an old hunter, and thus altogether different from the bark and yelp of the coyote of the plains. Twenty years ago the Sierra Nevadas were alive with game, and many a time have I sat by the ashes of our fire on a morning early, and thrown stones at an inquisitive black-tail deer, undismayed by his first sight of man. On this evening, however, after we had finished our smoke and looked after our horses and pack-mules, we rolled in our blankets, and, with saddles for pillows and our heavy sombreros covering our faces, were soon asleep.
“My next conscious thoughts were of warmth on my face, and I sat up suddenly to find the sun just above the treetops. Giving Mitchell a rousing slap on the back, I set about getting a fire, at which task he joined me a moment later. Soon we had started a tiny blaze, but the dew-damp wood would not catch according to my fancy and I stooped to blow it. It caught, and I raised my head. As I did so I saw the strangest figure that ever met my eyes.
“At first Mitchell did not see it, for, though near, it stood just behind him. But as my look of amazement caught Mitchell’s eye, with a ‘What the devil is the matter with—?’ he turned his head; and the words died on his lips. What had so astonished me was nothing more nor less than the form of a man, but a man whose like I had never seen nor imagined. In the first place he seemed to be at the very least seven feet high, and, even shrouded as he was by the folds of his odd costume, magnificently proportioned. He was garbed in a flowing gown of white, wound around by a broad crimson sash, into which were stuck two daggers and a long curved sword with a handle of gold set with jewels; while a huge turban of oriental fashion, snow-white like his gown, crowned his head. Beneath the turban gleamed two eyes, small, but piercingly brilliant, while the lower part of the dark oval face was half hidden by his most remarkable feature, a moustache, jet black, and as long as the horns of a big steer—a comparison which its graceful curves still further suggested. What finally riveted our attention, however, was neither the man’s garb nor his features, but an object that he held in the curve of his right arm.”