ten been
aroused by the man to whom Miss Slade had stopped to speak. He wondered
about him, first of all, because of his personal appearance. That was
striking enough to excite wonder in anybody, for he was one of those
remarkable men who possess great beauty of countenance allied to
unfortunate deformity of body. The face was that of a poet and a
dreamer, the body that of a hunchback and a cripple. Painter or
sculptor alike would have rejoiced to depict the face on canvas or
carve it in marble--its perfect shape, fine tinting, the lines of the
features, the beauty of the eyes, the wealth of the dark, clustering
hair, were all as near artistic perfection as could be. But all else
spoke of deformity--the badly bent back, the twisted body, the short
leg, the misshapen foot. It was as if Nature had endeavoured in some
wickedly mischievous freak to show how beauty and ugliness can be
combined in one creature.

That was one reason for wonder in Appleyard's mind--he had never come
across quite this type before, though he knew that hunchbacks and
cripples are often gifted with unusual strength, and more than usual good
looks, as if in ironic compensation for their other disadvantages. But
there were others. Mr. Gerald Rayner--everybody knew everybody else's
name in that private hotel, for they were all more or less permanent
residents--was something of a mystery man. In spite of his deformity, he
was the best-dressed man in the house--they were all smart men there, but
none of them came up to him in the way of clothes, linen, and personal
adornment, always in the best and most cultured taste. Also it was easy
to gather that he was a young man of large means. Although he made full
use of the public rooms, and was always in and about them of an evening,
from dinner-time to a late hour, he tenanted a private suite of
apartments in the hotel--those residents, few in number, who had been
privileged to obtain entrance to them spoke with almost awed admiration
of their occupant's books, pictures, and objects of art. Mr. Gerald
Rayner, it was evident, was a man of culture--that, indeed, was shown by
his conversation. And at first Appleyard had set him down as a poet, or
an artist, or a writing man of some sort--a dilettante who possessed
private means. Then, being a sharp observer of all that went on around
his own centre, he began to perceive that he must be mistaken in
that--Rayner was obviously a business man, like himself. For eve