“Why, nothing,” said Donal. “I was only interested in seeing a ridiculous and possibly dangerous situation smoothed out as neatly as possible. I admit I hadn’t any notion of the part William played in the matter—he’s apparently an absolute devil.”

The pipe rattled in Galt’s suddenly unclenched jaws and he had to grab it quickly with one thick hand to keep it from falling. He took it from his lips and stared in amazement at Donal.

“Who told you that?” he demanded.

“No one,” said Donal. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Galt laid his pipe down on the table and stood up.

“Not to ninety-nine per cent of the civilized worlds, it isn’t,” he retorted. “What made it so obvious to you?”

“Certainly,” said Donal, “any man can be judged by the character and actions of the people with which he surrounds himself. And this William has an entourage of thwarted and ruined people.”

The marshal stiffened.

“You mean me?” he demanded.

“Naturally not,” said Donal. “After all—you’re a Dorsai.” The stiffness went out of Galt. He grinned a little sourly and, reaching back for his pipe, retrieved and relit it.

“Your faith in our common origin is . . . quite refreshing,” he said. “Go on. On this piece of evidence you read William’s character, do you?”

“Oh, not just that,” said Donal. “Stop and think of the fact that a Select of Kultis finds herself at odds with him. And the good instincts of a Select are inbred. Also, he seems to be an almost frighteningly brilliant sort of man, in that he can dominate personalities like Anea, and this fellow Montor, from Newton—who must be a rather high-level mind himself to have rated as he did on his tests.”

“And someone that brilliant must be a devil?” queried Galt, dryly.

“Not at all,” explained Donal, patiently. “But having such intellectual capabilities, a man must show proportionately greater inclinations toward either good or evil than lesser people. If he tends toward evil, he may mask it in himself—he may even mask its effect on the people with which he surrounds himself. But he has no way of producing the reflections of good which would ordinarily be reflected from his lieutenants and initiates—and which, if he was truly good—he would have no reason to try and hide. And by that lack, you can read him.”

Galt took the pipe from his mouth and gave a long, slow whistle. He stared at Donal.

“You weren’t brought up on one of the Exotics, by any chance, were you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Donal. “My father’s mother was a Maran, though. And my mother’s mother was Maran.”

“This,” Galt paused and tamped thoughtfully in the bowl of his pipe—it had gone out—with one thick forefinger, “business of reading character—did you get this from your mother, or your grandmother—or is it your own idea?”