eside the chimney, and directly facing Denis as he
entered, sat a little old gentleman in a fur tippet. He sat with his
legs crossed and his hands folded, and a cup of spiced wine stood by
his elbow on a bracket on the wall. His countenance had a strongly
masculine cast; not properly human, but such as we see in the bull, the
goat, or the domestic boar; something equivocal and wheedling,
something greedy, brutal, and dangerous. The upper lip was
inordinately full, as though swollen by a blow or a toothache; and the
smile, the peaked eyebrows, and the small, strong eyes were quaintly
and almost comically evil in expression. Beautiful white hair hung
straight all round his head, like a saint's, and fell in a single curl
upon the tippet. His beard and mustache were the pink of venerable
sweetness. Age, probably in consequence of inordinate precautions, had
left no mark upon his hands; and the Maletroit hand was famous. It
would be difficult to imagine anything at once so fleshy and so
delicate in design; the tapered, sensual fingers were like those of one
of Leonardo's women; the fork of the thumb made a dimpled protuberance
when closed; the nails were perfectly shaped, and of a dead, surprising
whiteness. It rendered his aspect tenfold more redoubtable, that a man
with hands like these should keep them devoutly folded in his lap like
a virgin martyr--that a man with so intense and startling an expression
of face should sit patiently on his seat and contemplate people with an
unwinking stare, like a god, or a god's statue. His quiescence seemed
ironical and treacherous, it fitted so poorly with his looks.

Such was Alain, Sire de Maletroit.

Denis and he looked silently at each other for a second or two.

"Pray step in," said the Sire de Maletroit. "I have been expecting you
all the evening."

He had not risen, but he accompanied his words with a smile and a
slight but courteous inclination of the head. Partly from the smile,
partly from the strange musical murmur with which the Sire prefaced his
observation, Denis felt a strong shudder of disgust go through his
marrow. And what with disgust and honest confusion of mind, he could
scarcely get words together in reply.

"I fear," he said, "that this is a double accident. I am not the
person you suppose me. It seems you were looking for a visit; but for
my part, nothing was further from my thoughts--nothing could be more
contrary to my wishes--than this int