candlesticks, his elbows on the board, his thumb marking the page. He had the dress and manner of a gentleman—excellent cloth in his coat, a rich stock and imported linen. On the table sat a top hat of the time, and in the corner by the driftwood fire was a portmanteau with silver buckles, strapped up as for a journey. The man was under forty, his features regular and clean-cut; his dark brows joined above eyes big and blue and wholly out of place in the olive skin.
Now and then he got up, went over to the window and looked out, but he was unable to see anything, for the rain continued and the puffs of wind. He seemed disturbed and uneasy. He drummed on the sill with his fingers, and then, with a glance at his portmanteau, returned to his chair between the two big tallow candles.
From time to time the tavern-keeper looked in at the door with some servile inquiry. This interruption annoyed the guest.
"Damme, man," he said, "are you forever at the door?"
"Shall I give the crew rum, sir?" the landlord asked.
"No," replied the man; "I will not pay your extortions for imported liquor."
"They wish it, sir."
The man looked up from his pamphlet.
"They wish it, eh," he said with nice enunciation. "Well, Mr. Castoe, I do not!"
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