He was a tall, portly man, with a kindly face, clean shaven
except for a pair of close-cropped, iron-gray side whiskers.
I was sure I had seen him before, but couldn't think of his
name.

"Earl," said he, handing me a card on which his name and
address were printed as follows:

DAVID GORDON EARL,
Barrister at Law,
Lincoln's Inn, London.

I remembered distinctly having accompanied my father to his
office on one occasion some years before.

"I've come up from London on purpose to see you. Just got
here only a few minutes ago," said he, laying off his
overcoat. "But upon my word!" he added, surveying me from
head to foot, "I didn't expect to find such a big, strapping
fellow as you are. Your surroundings are quite as I had
supposed they would be. Cramped quarters in a miserable
tumble-down back street! I suppose your guardian provided
this place for you?"

"I believe so," said I.

"Did you know that your stepmother had married again?" he
asked.