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 way…. Even the best of men make strange accusations against their God….

Presently Alvin Trueman emerged from Angus Burke’s cell and ascended to the corridor above. At the top of the stairs he nodded to a tall, thin, coatless individual, who slouched against the wall for support and puffed uninterestedly on a corncob pipe. From the mop of uncombable hair to the feet in Congress gaiters the man was a model of indolence. He exhaled an air of laziness. Yet, despite his carelessness of dress and of manner, and sometimes of the niceties of language, you gained a feeling that you were in the presence of a first-class man and a gentleman—of a first-class man, who through some crotchet of fate or some minor defect of character remained a first-class man in a tiny sphere and was more or less contented that it should be so.

His eyes were gray and very bright and interested—though there was also a weary look to them. His head was unusually fine…. Dress the man, comb him, eliminate the slouch from his shoulders so that his six feet and an inch of slender height became visible, and there were few assemblages he would not dominate.

“Waitin’ for you to come up, Mr. Trueman,” he said, letting his eyes droop as if they were about to pause in the midst of the conversation