“I will do my best, sir,” I answered fervently.
“A youthful Mentor, very!”
The words, accompanied by something closely resembling a sneer, came from neither Mr. Ravenor nor myself. Either a third person must have been in the room before my arrival and during the whole of our conversation, or he must have entered it since by some means unknown to me, for almost at my elbow, on the side remote from the door, stood the man who had broken in, without apology or explanation, upon our interview.
Both from the strange manner of his attire and on account of his personality, I could not repress a strong curiosity in the new-comer. He was above the average height, but of awkward and ungainly figure, its massiveness enhanced by the long black dressing-gown which was wrapped loosely around him. His hair and beard were of a deep reddish hue, the former partly concealed by a black silk skull-cap, and he wore thick blue spectacles, which by no means added to the attractiveness of his face; his features—those which were visible—were good, but their effect was completely spoilt by the disfiguring glasses and his curious complexion. There was an air of power about him difficult to analyse, but sufficiently apparent, which altogether redeemed him from coarseness, or even mediocrity; and his voice, too, was good. But my impressions concerning him were very mixed ones.
He was evidently someone of account in the household, for he stood on the hearthrug with his hands thrust into his loose pockets, completely at his ease, and without making any apology for his unceremonious appearance. When I first turned to look at him he was examining me with a cold, critical stare, which made me feel uncomfortable without knowing why.
“Who is the young gentleman?” he asked, turning to Mr. Ravenor. “Won’t you introduce me?”
Mr. Ravenor took up some papers lying on the table before him and began to sort them.
“It is Philip Morton, the son of the man who was murdered in Rothland Wood,” he answered quietly. “I am going to undertake his education.”
“Indeed! You’re becoming quite a philanthropist,” was the reply. “But why not send him to a public school at once?”
“Because a public school would be just the worst place for him,” Mr. Ravenor answered coldly. “His education has been good enough up to now, I dare say, but it has not been systematic. It wants shape and proportion, and Dr. Randall is just the man to see to that.”