"It was subjective, purely," mused Anthony Dexter. "I have been
working too hard." His reason was fully satisfied with the plausible
explanation, but he was not a man who was likely to have an
hallucination of any sort.

He was strong and straight of body, finely muscular, and did not look
over forty, though it was more than eight years ago that he had reached
the fortieth milestone. His hair was thinning a little at the temples
and the rest of it was touched generously with grey. His features were
regular and his skin clear. A full beard, closely cropped, hid the
weakness of his chin, but did not entirely conceal those fine lines
about the mouth which mean cruelty.

Someway, in looking at him, one got the impression of a machine,
well-nigh perfect of its kind. His dark eyes were sharp and
penetrating. Once they had been sympathetic, but he had outgrown that.
His hands were large, white, and well-kept, his fingers knotted, and
blunt at the tips. He had, pre-eminently, the hand of the surgeon,
capable of swiftness and strength, and yet of delicacy. It was not a
hand that would tremble easily; it was powerful and, in a way, brutal.

He was thoroughly self-satisfied, as well he might be, for the entire
countryside admitted his skill, and even in the operating rooms of the
hospitals in the city not far distant. Doctor Dexter's name was well
known. He had thought seriously, at times, of seeking a wider field,
but he liked the country and the open air, and his practice would give
Ralph the opportunity he needed. At his father's death, the young
physician would fail heir to a practice which had taken many years of
hard work to build up.