"Yes, my opinion is more definite than that," he corroborated evenly. He
did not suggest that he was sorry to say what he was about to say, did
not qualify in advance by intimating that his prognosis might be wrong.
"I think the next attack will be the last. Moreover, I believe it will
come soon, very soon." Impassively as he had spoken, he produced a book
of rice paper from his pocket and a rubber pouch of tobacco. The long
fingers were skilful, and a cigarette came into being as under a
machine. Without another word he lit a match and waited until the flame
was well up on the wood. Of a sudden a great cloud of kindly smoke
separated him from the other.
With an effort the big rancher lifted in his seat, passed his sleeve
across his forehead clumsily.
"Thank you, Chantry." He cleared his throat raspingly. "As I said, I
expected this; that's why I came to see you to-day." For the second time
his cigar was dead, but he did not light it again. There was no need of
subterfuge now. "I want you to do me a favour." He looked at the other
steadily through the diminishing haze. "Will you promise me?"
"No," said Chantry.
Landor stared as one who could not believe his ears.
"No!" he interrogated.
"I said so."
A trace of colour appeared in the rancher's mottled cheeks as, with an
effort, he got to his feet.
"I beg your pardon then for disturbing you," he said coldly. "I was
labouring under the delusion that you were a friend.
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