Besides all this, there were those other years, after he left the school under the high snow ranges, when Coryndon had vanished entirely, and of these years he never spoke.  And yet, with all this, Coryndon was unmistakably a “Sahib,” a man of unusual culture and brilliant ability.  He had complete powers of self-control, and his one passion was his love of music, and though he never played for anyone else, men who had come upon him unawares had heard him playing to himself in a way that was as surprising as everything else about Coryndon surprised and astonished.

He had dreamed as a boy, and he still dreamed as a man.  The subtle beauty of a line of verse led him into visionary habitations as fair as any ever disclosed to poet or artist.  He could lose himself utterly in the lights and shadows of a passing day, while he watched for a doomed man at the entrance of a temple, or brooded over painted sores and cried to the rich for alms by a dusty roadside; a very different Coryndon to the Coryndon who looked at Hartley across the white cloth of the round dinner-table.

The truth about Coryndon was that he read the souls of men.  Mhtoon Pah had boasted to Hartley that he read the walk of the world he looked at, but Coryndon went much further; and as Hartley talked about outward things, whilst the Boy and the Khitmutghar flitted in and out behind them, carrying plates and dishes, his guest was considering him with a quiet and almost moonstruck gravity of mind.  He knew just how far Hartley could go, and he knew exactly what blocked him.  Hartley was tied into the close meshes of circumstance; he argued from without and worked inward, and Coryndon had discovered the flaw in this process before he left his school.

When they were alone at last, Hartley pushed his chair closer to Coryndon and leaned forward.

“One moment.”  Coryndon’s voice was lowered slightly, and he strolled to the door.

“Boy,” he called, and with amazing alacrity Hartley’s servant appeared.

“Tell my servant,” he said, speaking in English, “that I want the cigar tin.”

“Do you believe he was listening?”

“I am sure of it.”

Hartley flushed angrily, and he was about to speak when Coryndon’s man came into the room, salaaming on the threshold, carrying a black tin.

“Would you like a little stroll in the garden?” said Coryndon.  “It would be pleasant before we sit down,” and Hartley followed him out.

“Did you bring any cigars down?”

Hartley spoke for the sake of saying something, more than for any reasonable desire to know whether Coryndon had done so or not, and his reply was a low, amused laugh.

“In ten minutes Shiraz will do a little juggling for your servants,” he said placidly.  “There are no cigars in the tin.  I hope you didn’t want one, Hartley?  He will probably tell them that I am a new arrival, picked up by him at Bombay.  Whatever he tells them, they will find him amusing.”