He frowned heavily,
began his sentences slowly and trailed off incoherently to a halt and
silence.
The Baron turned compassionately away from him to Mic-co with a
question.
"Names," said Mic-co, "are nothing to me, Baron Tregar. They are
merely a part of that great world from which I live apart. I am a
Heidelberg man, since you feel sufficiently interested to inquire.
Though my choice of a profession was merely a careless desire to know
some one thing well, I have never regretted it."
"I--I beg your pardon," stammered the Baron and glanced keenly at
Mic-co.
"It is a habit of mine," hinted Mic-co, "to take what confidence a man
may offer and let him withhold what he will."
"There is nothing to withhold!" flashed Ronador with sudden fierceness.
"Why do you speak of it?"
Mic-co thought of a white-faced young fellow who had stubbornly refused
to accept his hospitality, one morning beneath the live oaks, until he
might name aloud his offenses in the sight of God and Man. This man
before him, sweeping rapidly into the black gulf of delirium, was of a
different caliber.
By the pool Ronador leaped suddenly, his face quite colorless save
where the flame of fever burned in his cheeks.
"That Voice!" he said, standing in curious attitude of listening.
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