had such an expression that the beholder could only feel baffled. It was
the face of one who might be the oldest of men, so snow-white was the
hair, so deep were the lines that were graven upon it. His cheek-bones
were prominent, his mouth was concealed by a huge gray mustache, and his
cheeks were sunken, while his forehead projected, and was fringed with
heavy eyebrows, from behind which his dark eyes glowed with a sort of
gloomy lustre from cavernous depths. Over his whole face there was one
pervading expression that was more than despondency, and near akin to
despair. It was the expression of a man whose life had been a series of
disheartening failures, or of one who had sinned deeply, or of one who
had suffered unusual and protracted anguish of soul, or of one who has
been long a prey to that form of madness which takes the form of
melancholy. So this might mean a ruined life, or it might mean madness,
or it might be the stamp of sorrow, or it might be the handwriting of
remorse. Whatever it was could certainly not be gathered from one
survey, or from many, nor, indeed, could it be known for certain at all
without this man's confession.

[Illustration: "AND THIS WAS WIGGINS!"]

For in addition to this mysterious expression there was another, which
was combined with it so closely that it seemed to throw conjecture still
further off the track and bewilder the gazer. This was a certain air of
patient and incessant vigilance, a look-out upon the world as from
behind an outpost of danger, the hunted look of the criminal who fears
detection, or the never-ending watchfulness of the uneasy conscience.

All this Edith could not help seeing, and she gathered this general
result from her survey of that face, though at that time she could not
put her conclusion in words. It seemed to her to be remorse which she