The tone of his voice had a certain anxious note in it not quite in harmony with this declaration. He turned, under the drop-light overhanging the Board-table, and shook hands with his guest, as if to atone for this doubtful accent. “I shake hands with you again,” he said, speaking rapidly, “because this afternoon it was what you may call formal; it didn't count. And--my God!--you're the man I owe it all to.”
“Oh, you mustn't go as far as that--even in the absence of witnesses,” replied Lord Plowden, lightly. “I'll take off my coat for a few minutes,” he went on, very much at his ease. “It's hot in here. It's by the merest chance I happened to be detained in the City--and I saw your lights, and this afternoon we had no opportunity whatever for a quiet talk. No--I won't drink anything before dinner, but I'll light a cigar. I want to say to you, Thorpe,” he concluded, as he seated himself “that I think what you've done is very wonderful. The Marquis thinks so too--but I shouldn't like to swear that he understands much about it.”
The implication that the speaker did understand remained in the air like a tangible object. Thorpe took a chair, and the two men exchanged a silent, intent look. Their faces, dusky red on the side of the glow from the fire, pallid where the electric light fell slantwise upon them from above, had for a moment a mysterious something in common. Then the tension of the glance was relaxed--and on the instant no two men in London looked less alike.
Lord Plowden was familiarly spoken of as a handsome man. Thorpe had even heard him called the handsomest man in England--though this seemed in all likelihood an exaggeration. But handsome he undoubtedly was--tall without suggesting the thought of height to the observer, erect yet graceful, powerfully built, while preserving the effect of slenderness. His face in repose had the outline of the more youthful guardsman-type--regular, finely-cut, impassive to hardness. When he talked, or followed with interest the talk of others, it revealed almost an excess of animation. Then one noted the flashing subtlety of his glance, the swift facility of his smile and comprehending brows, and saw that it was not the guardsman face at all. His skin was fresh-hued, and there was a shade of warm brown in his small, well-ordered moustasche, but his hair, wavy and worn longer than the fashion, seemed black. There were perceptible veins of grey in it, though he had only entered his thirty-fifth year. He was dressed habitually with the utmost possible care.