rtainly not to be
assigned to any particular race, but there was an exotic touch about his
manner of speech suggesting that, even if not that of a foreigner, it was
shaped and colored by the inflexions of foreign tongues. The hue of his
plentiful and curly hair, indistinguishable to Mary and Cynthia, now
stood revealed as neither black, nor red, nor auburn, nor brown, nor
golden, but just, and rather surprisingly, a plain yellow, the color of a
cowslip or thereabouts. Altogether rather a rum-looking fellow! This had
been Alec Naylor's first remark when the Rector of Sprotsfield pointed
him out, as a possible fourth, at the golf club, and the rough justice of
the description could not be denied. He, like Alec, bore his scars; the
little finger of his right hand was amputated down to the knuckle.

Yet, after all this description, in particularity if not otherwise worthy
of a classic novelist, the thing yet remains that most struck observers.
Mr. Hector Beaumaroy had an adorable candor of manner. He answered
questions with innocent readiness and pellucid sincerity. It would be
impossible to think him guilty of a lie; ungenerous to suspect so much as
a suppression of the truth. Even Mr. Naylor, hardened by five-and-thirty
years' experience of what sailors will blandly swear to in collision
cases, was struck with the open candor of his bearing.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, Miss Wall, that's right, we go to town every
Wednesday. No particular reason why it should be Wednesday, but old
gentlemen somehow do better--don't you think so?--with method and
regular habits."

"I'm sure you know what's best for Mr. Saffron," said Delia. "You've
known him a long time, haven't you?"

Mr. Naylor drew a little nearer and listened. The General had put
himself into the corner, a remote corner of the room, and sat there with
an uneasy and rather glowering aspect.

"Oh no, no!" answered Beaumaroy. "A matter of weeks only. But the dear
old fellow seemed to take to me--a friend put us in touch originally. I
seem to be able to do just what he wants."

"I hope your friend is not really ill, not seriously?" This time the
question was Mrs. Naylor's, not Miss Delia's.

"His health is really not so bad, but," he gave a glance round the
company, as though inviting their understanding, "he insists that he's
not the man he was."

"Absurd!" smiled Naylor. "Not much older than I am, is he?"

"Only just turned seventy, I believe. But the idea's very per