The bell rang and I opened the door for Mr. Sefton Dagmar. In one second I comprehended why Sir William disliked his nephew. My master, for all his faults, was a deep-natured man of large mental mould. Before me stood his absolute antithesis. I saw a small, shallow, smiling, cunning face, that betrayed to the keen observer every emotion of the mind. The features were regular, even handsome, yet puny, and the soul that looked out of his eyes was facile, treacherous and sycophantic. He wore a slight yellow moustache, and his eyebrows were white. He looked too young. I judged him to be twenty-five. He was tall and very slight; he wore a pale brown overcoat and a suit beneath of tasteless checked tweed.
"Mr. Sefton Dagmar?" I asked with deference.
He nodded, looking me swiftly up and down. "Uncle in?" he airily demanded.
"No, sir; but I expect him shortly. Will you step inside?"
"Might as well," he drawled, but he entered with alacrity, and I led the way to the ante-chamber.
"Where is my uncle?" he enquired, as I removed his overcoat.
"I do not know, sir?"
"He got my card, I suppose?"
"Not yet, sir. He has been away."
"All night?"