“Am I running a Strangers’ Rest here?” Francis Sedgwick asked of himself when he emerged upon his porch the morning after Kent’s visit.
The occasion of this query was a man stretched flat on the lawn, with his feet propped up comfortably against the stone wall. In this recumbent posture he was achieving the somewhat delicate feat of smoking a long, thin clay pipe. Except for this plebeian touch he was of the most unimpeachable elegance. His white serge suit was freshly pressed. His lavender silk hose, descending without a wrinkle under his buckskin shoes, accorded with a lavender silk tie and lavender striped shirt. A soft white hat covered his eyes against the sun glare. To put a point to this foppishness, a narrow silken ribbon, also pure white, depending from his lapel buttonhole, suggested an eye-glass in his pocket.
Sedgwick, who had risen late, having returned to his house at daybreak after delivering his manuscript at Kent’s hotel, regarded this sartorial marvel with a doubt as to whether it might not be a figment of latent dreams. Making a détour across the grass, he attained to a side view of the interloper’s face. It repaid the trouble. It was a remarkable face, both in contour and in coloring. From chin to cheek, the skin was white, with a tint of blue showing beneath; but the central parts of the face were bronzed. The jaw was long, lean and bony. The cheek-bones were high; the mouth was large, fine-cut, and firm; the nose, solid, set like a rock.
At the sound of a footstep, the man pushed his hat downward, revealing a knobby forehead and half-closed eyes in which there was a touch of somberness, of brooding. The artist remembered having seen that type of physiognomy on the Venetian coins of the sixteenth century, the likenesses in bronze, of men who were of iron and gold,—scholars, rulers, and poets. The eyes of the still face opened wide, and fixed themselves on Sedgwick, and the expression of melancholy vanished.
“Good morning,” said the artist, and then all but recoiled from the voice that replied, so harsh and raucous it was.
“You rise late,” it said.
“I hear your opinion on it,” retorted Sedgwick, a bit nettled. “Am I to infer that you have been waiting for me?”
“You wouldn’t go far wrong.”
“And what can I do for you—before you leave?” said Sedgwick significantly.
“Take a little walk with me presently,” said the man in another voice, brushing the hat clear of his face.
“Kent!” exclaimed the artist.
“Well, you appear surprised. What kind of artist are you, not to recognize a man simply because he shaves his beard and affects a false voice?”
“But you’re so completely changed. And why this disguise?”
“Disguise?” returned the other, astonished in his turn. “I’m not in disguise.”
“Your clothes. They’re—well, except for being offensive, I’d call them foppish.”
“Not at all!” protested the other warmly. “Just because I’m a scientific man, is it to be assumed that I ought to be a frump? I’m fond of good clothes; I can afford good clothes; I wear good clothes. It’s a hobby of mine; but I deny that it is a weakness.”
“Of course not,” assented the other, somewhat amused. “By the way, though, your socks and tie don’t match.”
“They do, absolutely,” replied the other with asperity.
“Perhaps in fact; but not in effect. In matching smooth silk with ribbed silk, you should get the latter one shade lighter.”
“Is that so?” said Kent with interest. “You’ve told me something I never knew. I’ll remember that. Now I’ll trouble you to tell me some more things.”
“While taking that walk you spoke of?”
“That comes later. I’ve read your story.”
“Already?”
“Already! Do you know it’s ten o’clock? However, it’s a good story.”
“Thank you.”
“As a story. As information, it leaves out most of the important points.”
“Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome. Color, size, and trappings of the horse?”
“I didn’t notice particularly. Black, I think; yes, certainly, black. Rather a large horse. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Humph! Color, size, and trappings of the rider?”
“Reddish brown hair with a gloss like a butterfly’s wing,” said the artist with enthusiasm; “deep hazel eyes; clear sun-browned skin; tall—I should say quite tall—but so—so feminine that you wouldn’t realize her tallness. She was dressed in a light brown riding costume, with a toque hat, very simple, tan gauntlets, and tan boots; that is, the first time I saw her. The next time—”
“Hold on! A dressmaker’s catalogue is no good to me. I couldn’t remember it all. Was she in riding clothes on any of her later visits?”
“No.”
“Any scars or marks?”
“Certainly not!”