ously at
the young warrior who possessed this remarkable knowledge.

And the claret, like the general's other wines, was very good, and
Dangerfield said a stern word or two in its praise, and guessed its
vintage, to his host's great elation, who, with Lord Castlemallard,
began to think Dangerfield a very wonderful man.

Dr. Sturk alone sipped his claret silently; looking thoughtfully a good
deal at Dangerfield over the way, and when spoken to, seemed to waken
up, but dropped out of the conversation again; though this was odd, for
he had intended giving Dangerfield a bit of his mind as to what might be
made of the Castlemallard estates, and by implication letting in some
light upon Nutter's mismanagement.

When Dr. Sturk had come into the drawing-room before dinner, Dangerfield
was turning over a portfolio in the shade beyond the window, and the
evening sun was shining strongly in his own face; so that during the
ceremony of introduction he had seen next to nothing of him, and then
sauntered away to the bow window at the other end, where the ladies were
assembled, to make his obeisance.

But at the dinner-table, he was placed directly opposite, with the
advantage of a very distinct view; and the face, relieved against the
dark stamped leather hangings on the wall, stood out like a
sharply-painted portrait, and produced an odd and unpleasant effect upon
Sturk, who could not help puzzling himself then, and for a long time
after, with unavailing speculations about him.

The grim white man opposite did not appear to trouble his head about
Sturk. He eat his dinner energetically, chatted laconically, but rather
pleasantly. Sturk thought he might be eight-and-forty, or perhaps six or
seven-and-fifty--it was a face without a date. He went over all his
points, insignificant features, high forehead, stern countenance,
abruptly silent, abruptly speaking, spectacles, harsh voice, harsher
laugh, something sinister perhaps, and used for the most part when the
joking or the story had a flavour of the sarcastic and the devilish.
The image, as a whole, seemed to Sturk to fill in the outlines of a
recollection, which yet was _not_ a recollection. He could not seize it;
it was a decidedly unpleasant impression of having seen him before, but
where he could not bring to mind. 'He got me into some confounded
trouble some time or other,' thought Sturk, in his uneasy dream; 'the
sight of him is like a thump in my stomach. Was he the sherif