a
curious way:

"Mr. _Malcolm_ Cromarty?"

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Ison, and then as even this seemed scarcely to be
comprehended, he added, "Sir Reginald's cousin."

"Ah, of course!" said Mr. Rattar. "Well, show him in."

The young man who entered was evidently conscious of being a superior
person. From the waviness of his hair and the studied negligence of his
tie (heliotrope with a design in old gold), it seemed probable that he
had literary or artistic claims to be superior to the herd. And from the
deference with which Mr. Ison had pronounced his name and his own
slightly condescending manner, it appeared that he felt himself in other
respects superior to Mr. Rattar. He was of medium height, slender, and
dark-haired. His features were remarkably regular, and though his face
was somewhat small, there could be no doubt that he was extremely good
looking, especially to a woman's eye, who would be more apt than a
fellow man to condone something a little supercilious in his smile.

The attire of Mr. Malcolm Cromarty was that of the man of fashion
dressed for the country, with the single exception of the tie which
intimated to the discerning that here was no young man of fashion
merely, but likewise a young man of ideas. That he had written, or at
least was going to write, or else that he painted or was about to paint,
was quite manifest. The indications, however, were not sufficiently
pronounced to permit one to suspect him of fiddling, or even of being
about to fiddle.

This young gentleman's manner as he shook hands with the lawyer and then
took a chair was on the surface cheerful and politely condescending. Yet
after his first greeting, and when he was seated under Simon's
inscrutable eye, there stole into his own a hint of quite another
emotion. If ever an eye revealed apprehension it was Malcolm Cromarty's
at that instant.

"Well, Mr. Rattar, here I am again, you see," said he with a little
laugh; but it was not quite a spontaneous laugh.

"I see, Mr. Cromarty," said Simon laconically.

"You have been expecting to hear from me before, I suppose," the young
man went on, "but the fact is I've had an idea for a story and I've been
devilish busy sketching it out."

Simon grunted and gave a little nod. One would say that he was studying
his visitor with exceptional attention.

"Ideas come to one at the most inconvenient times," the young author
explained with a smile, and yet with a certain hurried utterance