hed to pieces two thousand feet below.

There was some advantage, too, in this species of stage wait. It enabled
him to take the measure of Adelaide Melhuish's husband, if, indeed, the
visitor was really the man he professed to be.

At first sight, Isidor G. Ingerman was not a prepossessing person.
Indeed, it would be safe to assume that if, by some trick of fortune, he
and not Grant were the tenant of The Hollies, P.C. Robinson would have
haled him to the village lock-up that very morning. It was not that he
was villainous-looking, but rather that he looked capable of villainy. He
was a tall, slender, rather stooping man, with a decidedly well-molded,
if hawk-like, face. His aspect might be described as saturnine. Possibly,
when he smiled, this morose expression would vanish, and then he might
even win a favorable opinion. He had brilliant black eyes, close set, and
an abundant crop of black hair, turning gray, which, in itself, lent an
air of distinction. His lips were thin, his chin slightly prominent. He
was well dressed, and managed a hat, stick, and gloves with ease.
Altogether, he reminded Grant of a certain notable actor who is
invariably cast for the role of a gentlemanly scoundrel, but who, in
private life, is a most excellent fellow and good citizen. Oddly enough,
Grant recognized in him, too, the type of man who would certainly have
appealed to Adelaide Melhuish in her earlier and impressionable years.

Meanwhile, the visitor, finding that the clear-eyed young man seated in
an easy chair (from which he had not risen) could seemingly regard him
with blank indifference during the next hour, thought fit to say
something.

"Is my name familiar to you, Mr. Grant?" he inquired.

The voice was astonishingly soft and pleasant, and the accent agreeably
refined. Evidently, there were surprising points about Mr. Ingerman. Long
afterwards, Grant learned, by chance, that the man had been an actor
before branching off into that mysterious cosmopolitan profession known
as "a financier."

"No," said Grant. "I have heard it very few times. Once, about three
years ago, and today, when I mentioned it to the police."

The other man's sallow cheeks grew a shade more sallow. Grant supposed
that this slight change of color indicated annoyance. Of course, the
association of ideas in that curt answer was intolerably rude. But Grant
had been tried beyond endurance that day. He was in a mood to be brusque
with an archbishop.