"You, my dear fellow!" he exclaimed. "Say, I'm delighted to see you—I am sure! But would you mind—just a little lower with your fingers! Too professional a touch altogether!"
Mr. Cullen smiled, and from that moment I took a dislike to him—a dislike that did much toward determining the point of view from which I was inclined to consider various succeeding incidents. He was by no means a person of prepossessing appearance. His cheeks were colorless save for a sort of yellowish tinge. His mouth reminded me of the mouth of a horse; his teeth were irregular and poor.
Yet there was about the man a certain sense of power. His eyes were clear and bright. His manner was imbued with the reserve strength of a man who knows his own mind and does not fear to speak it.
"I am sorry to interrupt you at your dinner, Mr. Parker," he said, his eyes traveling all over the table as though taking in its appointments and condition.
"Of no consequence at all," Mr. Parker assured him; "in fact I have nearly finished. If you are thinking of dining here let me recommend this chicken en casserole. I have tasted nothing so good for days!"
Mr. Cullen thanked him mechanically. His mind, however, was obviously filled with other things. He was puzzled.
"You must have a double about this evening, I fancy," he remarked. "I could have sworn I saw you coming out of a certain little house in Adam Street not a couple of minutes ago. You know the little house I mean?"
Mr. Parker smiled.
"Seems as though that double were all right," he said. "I am halfway through my dinner, as you can see, and I'm a slow eater—especially in pleasant company. Shake hands with my friend—Mr. Paul Walmsley, Mr. Cullen."
My surprise at hearing my own name correctly given was only equaled by the admiration I also felt for my companion's complete and absolute assurance. Mr. Cullen and I exchanged a perfunctory handshake, which left me without any change in my feelings toward him.