Nicolovius had a smile for that, though his expression seemed subtly to
shift. "I must make confession to you. Three days ago, I broke the
habits of quarter of a century. At the second-hand shop on Centre Street
I bought, actually, a little volume of history. It is surprising how
these Southern manifestations have interested me."
Queed was an undesirable person for any man to live with who had a
secret to keep. His mind was relentlessly constructive; it would build
you up the whole dinosaur from the single left great digitus. For
apparently no reason at all, there had popped into his head a chance
remark of Major Brooke's a year ago, which he had never thought of from
that day to this: "I can't get over thinking that I've seen that man
before a long time ago, when he looked entirely different, and yet
somehow the same too."
"I will show you my purchase," added Nicolovius, after a moment of
seeming irresolution.
He disappeared down the hail to his bedroom, a retreat in which Queed
had never set foot, and returned promptly carrying a dingy duodecimo in
worn brown leather. As he entered the room, he absently raised the
volume to his lips and blew along the edges.
Queed's mental processes were beyond his own control. "Three days old,"
flashed into his mind, "and he blows dust from it."
"What is the book?" he asked.
"A very able little history of the Reconstruction era in this State. I
have a mind to read you a passage and convert you."
Nicolovius sat down, and began turning the pages. Queed stood a step
away, watching him intently. The old man fluttered the leaves vaguely
for a moment; then his expression shifted and, straightening up, he
suddenly closed the book.
"I don't appear to find," he said easily, "the little passage that so
impressed me the day before yesterday. And after all, what would be the
use of reading it to you? You impetuous young men will never listen to
the wisdom of your elders."
Smiling blandly, the subject closed, it might have been forever,
Nicolovius reached out toward the table to flick the ash from his
cigarette. In so doing, as luck had it, he struck the book and knocked
it from his knees. Something shook from its pages as it dropped, and
fell almost at Queed's feet. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up.
It was a letter, at any rate an envelope, and it had fallen face up,
full in the light of the open window. The envelope bore an address, in
faded ink, but written in a bold legible hand. Not to save his soul
could Queed have avoided seeing it:
_Henry G. Surface, Esq.,
36 Washington Street._
There was a dead silence: a silence that from matter-of-fact suddenly
became unendurable.
Queed handed the envelope to Nicolovius. Nicolovius glanced at it, while
pretending not to, and his eyelash flickered; his face was about the
color of cigar ashes. Queed walked away, waiting.
He expected that the old man would immediately demand whether he had
seen that name and address, or at least would immediately say something.
But he did nothing of the sort. When Queed turned at the end of the
room, Nicolovius was fluttering the pages of his book again, apparently
absorbed in it, apparently quite forgetting that he had just laid it
aside. Then Queed understood. Nicolovius did not mean to say or do
anything. He meant to pass over the little incident altogether.
However, the pretense had now reached a point when Queed could no longer
endure it.
"Perhaps, after all," said Nicolovius, in his studiously bland voice, "I
am a little sweeping--"
Queed stood in front of him, interrupting, suddenly not at ease.
"Professor Nicolovius."
"Yes?"
"I must say something that will offend you, I'm afraid. For some time I
have found myself unable to believe the--story of your life you were
once good enough to give me."
"Ah, well," said Nicolovius, engrossed in his book, "it is not required
of you to believe it. We need have no quarrel about that."
Suddenly Queed found that he hated to give the stab, but he did not
falter.
"I must be frank with you, professor. I saw whom that envelope was
addressed to just now."
"Nor need we quarrel about that."
But Queed's steady gaze upon him presently grew unbearable, and at last
the old man raised his head.
"Well? Whom was it addressed to?"
Queed felt disturbingly sorry for him, and, in the same thought, admired
his iron control. The old professor's face was gray; his very lips were
colorless; but his eyes were steady, and his voice was the voice of
every day.
"I think," said Queed, quietly, "that it is addressed to you."
There was a lengthening silence while the two men, motionless, looked
into each other's eyes. The level gaze of each held just the same look
of faint horror, horror subdued and controlled, but still there. Their
stare became fascinated; it ran on as though nothing could ever happen
to break it off. To Queed it seemed as if everything in the world had
dropped away but those brilliant eyes, frightened yet unafraid, boring
into his.
Nicolovius broke the silence. The triumph of his intelligence over his
emotions showed in the fact that he attempted no denial.
"Well?" he said somewhat thickly. "Well?--Well?"
Under the look of the younger man, he was beginning to break. Into the
old eyes had sprung a deadly terror, a look as though his immortal soul
might hang on what the young man was going to say next. To answer this
look, a blind impulse in Queed bade him strike out, to say or do
something; and his reason, which was always detached and impersonal,
was amazed to hear his voice saying:--
"It's all right, professor. Not a thing is going to happen."