"There is something in the boy's face that reminds me of her," he was muttering to himself. "It's about the eyes or about the mouth—I'm not quite sure which. Anyway, if I should turn out to be right, the lad's got nothing of his father about him, and I'm glad of that; I'm glad of that."
Mostyn was indeed a young man whose personal appearance might attract attention. He was tall, standing well over six foot, and broad of shoulder in proportion. His athletic training had done much for him, and he was in every way, physically as well as mentally, a contrast to his two brothers. He had often been told, indeed, that he resembled his mother, who in her younger days had been stately and handsome, a recognised beauty in London society, while James and Charles were always supposed to take after their father. Mostyn had fair hair, which he wore cut short, striving thereby to overcome its tendency to curl, an attempt at which he was not always quite successful; his eyes were blue, very large and gentle, though they could be stern at times, as could his lips, which were otherwise prone to smile.
Anthony Royce, who had a keen insight into the minds of men, and who had observed the boy very carefully almost from the first moment of their meeting, was pleased with what he had seen, and, for more reasons than one, felt well disposed towards Mostyn Clithero.
He glanced at his watch. "I guess we'll stop here awhile," he said; "it's restful. Besides, I want to have a quiet chat with you." He took a bulky cigar-case from his pocket, extracted a large and dark cigar, which he proceeded to light up. Then he offered the case to his young friend.
Mostyn shook his head. He did not smoke; it was one of those things to which his father objected.
They had been standing upon the box of the coach, and it was here that they seated themselves, Royce occupying the driver's place. He puffed thoughtfully at the cigar before breaking the silence. Mostyn sat silent too, wondering what this new friend of his would have to say, and why Anthony Royce, the American millionaire, should have apparently taken so much interest in him. Mostyn had hardly given a thought to the matter before, but now he was more collected, more himself, and the things seemed strange to him.
"I have a curious idea," so Royce began at last, "that though you and I have never met before, Clithero, I was once acquainted both with your mother and with your father. I thought so from the first moment we met in Eaton Square, and I have been watching you and have noticed all manner of little tricks of expression which remind me of Mary Clithero—Mary Willoughby as she was, she who I fancy must be your mother." He was gazing straight before him, blowing out great clouds of smoke.
"Yes, my mother's name was Willoughby!" cried Mostyn, surprised. "How strange to think that you should have known her all those years ago! And you never saw her after her marriage? She is dead now, you know."
Royce nodded his head gravely. "She'd have been alive to-day"—he began, then broke off suddenly. "I never met your mother as Mrs. Clithero," he continued after a pause. "It would not have been well for either of us. We loved each other once: Mary Willoughby is the only woman who has ever influenced my life. We were to have been married."
"I never heard of this; I was never told." Mostyn opened wondering eyes and stared at his companion with new interest.