the assistance of his stick. And on this account also, he
always insisted on the room being heated to an extraordinary
degree. Like a salamander he basked in the heat, and would
not allow either door or window to be opened, even in the
midst of summer, when a large fire made the apartment almost
unendurable. Cuthbert felt as though he were walking into a
Turkish bath, and sat as far away from the fire as he could.
After saluting him, his uncle sank back into his seat and
looked at him inquiringly.

Lord Caranby was tall and thin--almost emaciated--with a
lean, sallow, clean-shaven face, and a scanty crop of fair
hair mixed with gray. His eyes were sunken but full of
vitality, although usually they were grave and somewhat sad.
His hands were deformed with gout, but for all that he wore
several costly rings. He was perfectly dressed, and as quiet
and composed as an artist's model. When he spoke it was in an
unemotional way, as though he had exhausted all expression of
his feelings early in life. Perhaps he had, for from what
Cuthbert had heard from his uncle, the past of that nobleman
was not without excitement. But Caranby's name was rarely
mentioned in London. He remained so much abroad that he had
quite dropped out of the circle to the entry of which his rank
entitled him. His age was sixty-five.

"You are surprised at seeing me again to-night," said
Cuthbert.

"I am never surprised at anything," replied his uncle dryly,
"but we exhausted all we had to say to one another before