His black hair was glossy and most romantically
arranged. His black mustache and imperial were waxed
and brilliantined. There was no mistaking the liberal
use of dye, also. From the rather thin, very sharp
face looked a pair of small, muddy, brown-green eyes
--dull, crafty, cold, cruel. But the little man was so
insignificant and so bebarbered and betailored that one
could not take him seriously. Never had there been so
new, so carefully pressed, so perfectly fitting evening
clothes; never a shirt so expensively got together, or
jeweled studs, waistcoat buttons and links so high
priced. From every part of the room, from every part
of the little man's perfumed and groomed person, every
individual article seemed to be shrieking, ``The best is
not too good for Bill Siddall!''

Mildred was agreeably surprised--she was looking
with fierce determination for agreeable surprises--
when the costly little man spoke, in a quiet, pleasant
voice with an elusive, attractive foreign accent.

``My, but this is grand--grand, General Siddall!''
said Presbury in the voice of the noisy flatterer.
``Princely! Royal!''

Mildred glanced nervously at Siddall. She feared
that Presbury had taken the wrong tone. She saw in
the unpleasant eyes a glance of gratified vanity. Said
he: