"I have a letter for Mr. Abra'm Woodstock, sir."

"Well, give it here. Who's it from?"

"Mrs. Starr, sir."

"Who's Mrs. Starr? Come in here, will you?"

His short and somewhat angry tone was evidently in some degree the
result of the interview that had just closed, but also pretty
clearly an indication of his general manner to strangers. He let the
child pass him, and followed her into the room with the letter in
his hand. He did not seem able to remove his eyes from her face.
Ida, on her side, did not dare to look up at him. He was a massively
built, grey-headed man of something more than sixty. Everything
about him expressed strength and determination, power alike of body
and mind. His features were large and heavy, but the forehead would
have become a man of strong intellect; the eyes were full of
astonishing vital force, and the chin was a physiognomical study, so
strikingly did its moulding express energy of character. He was
clean-shaven, and scarcely a seam or wrinkle anywhere broke the
hard, smooth surface of his visage, its complexion clear and rosy as
that of a child.

Still regarding Ida, he tore open the envelope. At the sight of the
writing he, not exactly started, but moved his head rather suddenly,
and again turned his eyes upon the messenger.

"Sit down," he said, pointing to a chair. The room was an