"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Hope, of the firm of Dillard & Hatch," I returned.
"Ah ! It's you, come at last, is it?" he said, holding the lighted candle so as to get a better view of my face. "Well, come in, Mr. Hope."
He led the way up a flight of stairs and through a hall into a wide room, lighted by a brass lamp. The furniture was scant, but of a heavy, antique pattern. A faded Brussels carpet covered the floor, and in one corner stood a desk with a small iron safe near by. A narrow table in the center of the room held a decanter and glasses with the remnants of a lunch.
Motioning me to a chair, my strange host took the sacks of gold, which I carried in a stout bag, and threw them against the safe. The clang of the falling coins sounded dismally through the silent apartment.
"What a curse love and gold can be to a man!"
He spoke bitterly. I had never met Caleb Parton before, and as he uttered these words I looked at him carefully. His face was of a dark olive tint, while his deep-set eyes were small and intensely black. They were full of magnetism and subtle cunning.
He became conscious of my scrutiny, frowned a little, then turned toward the door.
"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Hope," he said, "I'll bring you up some refreshments. You must be tired and hungry after your long ride."
In a short time he returned, bringing a tray on which was a choice repast, with a bowl of strong coffee.
"You see I'm my own servant, Mr. Hope," he said, putting the tray on the table. "My man, Joe, is off to a camp-meeting and won't be back before daylight."
As I ate the lunch which Caleb Parton had brought me, he emptied the gold from the sacks upon the floor and counted it over carefully.
"Correct!" I heard him chuckle to himself, as he flung the refilled sacks into the safe.
After I had finished my lunch, Parton exhibited two fine pipes and invited me to join him in a smoke.
