Hagar, who loved the man’s unique and spontaneous character as only an artist can love a subject in which he sees royal possibilities, consented gladly, and dropped a cordial hand on the other’s shoulder.  The hand was dragged down and wrenched back and forth with a sturdy clasp, in time to a roll of round, unctuous laughter.  Then Baron took him up hurriedly, and introduced him to Telford with the words:  “You two ought to know each other.  Telford, traveler, officer of the Hudson’s Bay company, et cetera; Hagar, artist, good fellow, et cetera.”

Then he drew back and smiled as the two men, not shaking hands as he expected, bowed, and said they were happy to meet.  The talk began with the remark by Hagar on the panorama below them, “that the thing was amusing if not seen too often, but the eternal paddling round the band stand was too much like marionettes.”

“You prefer a Punch and Judy to marionettes?” asked Telford.

“Yes, you get a human element in a Punch and Judy tragedy.  Besides, it has surprises, according to the idiosyncrasy of the man in the greenroom.”  He smiled immediately, remembering that his last words plagiarized Mr. Alpheus Richmond.

“I never miss a Punch and Judy if I’m near it,” said Telford.  “I enjoy the sardonic humor with which Punch hustles off his victims.  His light-heartedness when doing bloody deeds is the true temper.”

“That is, if it must be done, to do it with a grin is—­”

“Is the most absolute tragedy.”

Hagar was astonished, for even the trader’s information that Telford spoke excellent French, and had certainly been a deal on red carpet in his time, did not prepare him for the sharply incisive words just uttered.  Yet it was not incongruous with.  Telford’s appearance—­not even with the red sash peeping at the edge of his waistcoat.

They came down among the promenaders, and Baron being accosted by some one, he left the two together, exacting anew the promise from Hagar regarding dinner.

Presently Hagar looked up, and said abruptly, “You were singing outside my window last night.”

Telford’s face was turned away from him when he began.  It came slowly toward him.  The eyes closed steadily with his, there was no excitement, only cold alertness.

“Indeed?  What was I singing?”

“For one thing, the chant of the negro woodcutters of Louisiana.”

“What part of Louisiana?”

“The county of Tellavie chiefly.”

Telford drew a long breath, as though some suspense was over, and then said, “How did you know it was I?”

“I could scarcely tell you.  I got the impression—­besides, you are the only man I’ve seen in Herridon who looks likely to know it and the song which you prompted.”

“Do I look like a southerner—­still?  You see I’ve been in an arctic country five years.”

“It is not quite that.  I confess I cannot explain it.”