But it was not Jan. It was somebody Nicholas Snyders had never set eyes on before. And neither, after that one visit, did Nicholas Snyders ever set eyes upon him again. The light was fading, and Nicholas Snyders was not the man to light candles before they were needed, so that he was never able to describe with any precision the stranger's appearance. Nicholas thought he seemed an old man, but alert in all his movements; while his eyes—the one thing about him Nicholas saw with any clearness—were curiously bright and piercing.
“Who are you?” asked Nicholas Snyders, taking no pains to disguise his disappointment.
“I am a pedlar,” answered the stranger. His voice was clear and not unmusical, with just the suspicion of roguishness behind.
“Not wanting anything,” answered Nicholas Snyders drily. “Shut the door and be careful of the step.”
But instead the stranger took a chair and drew it nearer, and, himself in shadow, looked straight into Nicholas Snyders' face and laughed.
“Are you quite sure, Nicholas Snyders? Are you quite sure there is nothing you require?”
“Nothing,” growled Nicholas Snyders—“except the sight of your back.” The stranger bent forward, and with his long, lean hand touched Nicholas Snyders playfully upon the knee. “Wouldn't you like a soul, Nicholas Snyders?” he asked.