f its owner's occupation.

After he had changed his shoes, he refilled his pipe, walked over to the
fire, and stood looking down into its glowing heart.

He was a man a little above medium height, slimly built, with a breadth
of shoulder which was suggestive of the athlete. He had indeed rowed 4
in his boat, and had fought his way into the semi-finals of the
amateur boxing championship of England. His face was strong, lean, yet
well-moulded. His eyes were grey and deep, his eyebrows straight and a
little forbidding. The clean-shaven mouth was big and generous, and the
healthy tan of his cheek told of a life lived in the open air.

There was nothing of the recluse or the student in his appearance. He
was in fact a typical, healthy-looking Britisher, very much like any
other man of his class whom one would meet in the mess-room of the
British army, in the wardrooms of the fleet, or in the far-off posts of
the Empire, where the administrative cogs of the great machine are to be
seen at work.

There was a little tap at the door, and before he could say "Come in" it
was pushed open and Grace Lexman entered.

If you described her as brave and sweet you might secure from that brief
description both her manner and her charm. He half crossed the room to
meet her, and kissed her tenderly.

"I didn't know you were back until--" she said; linking her arm in his.

"Until you saw the horrible mess my mackintosh has made," he smiled. "I
know your methods, Watson!"

She laughed, but became serious again.

"I am very glad you've come back. We have a visitor," she said.

He raised his eyebrows.

"A visitor? Whoever came down on a day like this?"

She looked at him a little strangely.

"Mr. Kara," she said.

"Kara? How long has he been here?"

"He came at four."

There was nothing enthusiastic in her tone.

"I can't understand why you don't like old Kara," rallied her husband.

"There are very many reasons," she replied, a little curtly for her.

"Anyway," said John Lexman, after a moment's thought, "his arrival is
rather opportune. Where is he?"

"He is in the drawing-room."

The Priory drawing-room was a low-ceilinged, rambling apartment,
"all old print and chrysanthemums," to use Lexman's description. Cosy
armchairs, a grand piano, an almost medieval open grate, faced with
dull-green tiles, a well-worn but cheerful carpet and two big silver
candelabras were the principal features which attracted the newcomer.