She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. ’ ‘Emile Gosse,’ Melusine said flatly, in the same language. But Miss Stanley took no notice of these things. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. Pitt, pointing to the prisoner.
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