Melrose surveyed him--the interloper!--who represented to him at that
moment one of those unexpected checks and annoyances in life, which
selfish men with strong wills cannot and do not attempt to bear. His
privacy, his habits, his freedom--all at the mercy of this white-faced
boy, these two intolerable women, and the still more intolerable doctor,
on whom he intended to inflect a stinging lesson! No doubt the whole
thing had been done by the wretched pill-man with a view to his own fees.
It was a plant!--an infamous conspiracy.

He came closer. Not a boy, after all. A young man of thirty--perhaps
more. The brow and head were covered with bandages; the eyes were closed;
the bloodless mouth hung slightly open, with a look of pain. The
comeliness of the dark, slightly bearded face was not entirely disguised
by the dressings in which the head was swathed; and the chest and arms,
from which the bedclothes had been folded back, were finely, though
sparely, moulded. Melrose, whose life was spent among artistic objects
was not insensible to the young man's good looks, as they were visible
even under his bandages and in the dim light, and for the first time he
felt a slight stir of pity.

He left the room, beckoning to the night nurse.

"What's his name?"

"We took some cards from his pocket. I think, sir, the doctor put them
here for you to see."

The nurse went to the hall table and brought one.

"Claude Faversham, 5 Temple Buildings, E.C."