Sanford Quest held out his hand to the man who had been standing a little
in the background. Lord Ashleigh turned towards him.

"This is Mr. Quest, Edgar. You may remember my brother--Professor
Ashleigh--as a man of science, Quest? He has just returned from South
America."

The two shook hands, curiously diverse in type, in expression, in all the
appurtenances of manhood. Quest was dark, with no sign of greyness in his
closely-trimmed black hair. His face was an epitome of forcefulness, his
lips hard, his eyes brilliant. He was dressed with the utmost care. His
manner was self-possessed almost to a fault. The Professor, on the other
hand, though his shoulders were broad, lost much of his height and
presence through a very pronounced stoop. His face was pale, his mouth
sensitive, his smile almost womanly in its sweetness. His clothes, and a
general air of abstraction, seemed rather to indicate the clerical
profession. His forehead, however, disclosed as he lifted his hat, was the
forehead of a scholar.

"I am very proud to make your acquaintance again, Professor," Quest said.
"Glad to know, too, that you hadn't quite forgotten me."

"My dear sir," the Professor declared, as he released the other's hand
with seeming reluctance, "I have thought about you many times. Your doings
have always been of interest to me. Though I have been lost to the world
of civilisation for so long, I have correspondents here in New York to
keep me in touch with all that is interesting. You have made a great name
for yourself, Mr. Quest. You are one of those who have made science your
handmaiden in a wonderful profession."