This man, whose age might have been anything between forty and fifty, and
whose colouring was dark and a trifle florid, would probably have evoked
the epithet of "handsome" on the operatic stage, and in any city but
London that of "distinguished." In London, however, you could hardly fail
to find his like in one or other of the west-end restaurants about 8 p.m.

Francis Bullard, standing erect in the sunshine, a shade over-fed
looking, but perfectly groomed in his regulation city garb, an enigmatic
smile under his neat black moustache as he watched the reader, suggested
nothing ugly or mean, nothing worse, indeed, than worldly prosperity and
a frank enjoyment thereof. His well-kept fingers toyed with a little gold
nugget depending from his watch chain--his only ornament.

The third man was seated in a capacious leather-covered, easy chair by
the hearth. Leaning forward, he held his palms to the fire, though not
near enough for them to have derived much warmth. He was extremely tall
and thin. The head was long and rather narrow, the oval countenance had
singularly refined features. The hair, once reddish, now almost grey, was
parted in the middle and very smoothly brushed; the beard was clipped
close to the cheeks and trimmed to a point. Bluish-grey eyes, deepset,
gave an impression of weariness and sadness; indeed the whole face hinted
at melancholy. Its attractive kindliness was marred by a certain
furtiveness. He was as stylishly dressed as his co-director, Bullard, but
in light grey tweed; and he wore a pearl of price on his tie and a fine
diamond on his little finger. His name was Robert Lancaster, and no man
ever started life with loftier ideals and cleaner intentions.

At last the young man at the table, with a brisk motion, dipped his pen.

"One moment, Alan," said Bullard, and touched a bell-button.