not been wholly native. "That'll do for you," he repeated, in a voice strangely clear and deep.
Young Lehane seemed to shrink before the steady brightness of his look. The speaker turned to Archer and scrutinized him as steadily. Without ceremony, yet without offense, he took Archer by the arm and wheeled him about toward the light. The two men stood looking each other in the eye. Archer saw before him a man of his own age, entirely sober, with the face of a thinker,—a face swarthy but clear. The searching eyes, that seemed almost to emit light, were wide-set and very blue. Three big veins scored the broad forehead with irregular lines as blue as the eyes, or as the jersey that clung to the sinewy frame. Intellect, and a kind of grave passion, shone in the whole countenance : the man might have been Hamlet in the rough, but Hamlet with the will of Fortinbras, sad but strong.
"My name's Peter," he declared simply. "I'd like to have yours."
It was as if he had forced a reply that he
