The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

"Oh, I know," Jack said, with some suggestion of impatience in his voice. "And yet, if you don't mind, we will say nothing of our engagement at present."

Claire contested the point no longer. After all she was very happy as things stood. She had plenty of chances of meeting her lover, and Mr. Anstruther seemed to be altogether too wrapped up in his scientific studies to notice what was going on under his very eyes. He came into the room at the same moment humming a fragment of some popular opera.

There was nothing whatever about the man to justify Jack Masefield's opinions. Spencer Anstruther was calculated to attract attention anywhere. The man was tall and well set up, he had a fine commanding face softened by a tolerant and benign expression. People looked after him as he walked down the street and wondered which popular statesman he was. In society Anstruther was decidedly welcome, amongst men of learning he was a familiar figure. His scientific knowledge was great, certain publications of his were regarded in the light of text-books. Altogether he was a man to cultivate.

"I am afraid that I am late, young people," he said in a smooth, polished voice. "I hope you have been able to amuse yourselves together in my absence. You look moody, Jack. Don't those briefs come in as freely as you would like? Or have you been quarreling?"

"No, sir," Jack replied. "We never quarrel; we are too good friends for that. We have not the excuse in that way that lovers are supposed to possess."

"We have been studying that awful poster," Claire said. "I wish somebody would take it away. Jack is always seeing some likeness in it. He says that you----"

The girl paused in some confusion. Anstruther smiled as he put up his glasses.

"It is a complex face," he said. "Whose features does it remind you of just now, Jack?"

"Yours," Jack said boldly. He flashed the word out suddenly. Half to himself he wondered why he always felt a wild desire to quarrel with this man. "I hope you won't be offended, sir, but I can see a grotesque likeness to you in the famous repellent Nostalgo."

Claire looked up in some alarm. She was wondering how her guardian would take it. The log fire in the grate shot up suddenly and illuminated Anstruther's face. Perhaps it was the quick flare that played a trick on Claire's fancy, for it seemed to her that suddenly Anstruther's face was convulsed with rage. The benign pink expression had gone, the features were dark with passion, the fine speaking eyes grew black with malignant hatred. Claire could see the hands of the man clenched so hard that the knuckles stood out white as chalk. And there with it all was the likeness to Nostalgo that Jack had so boldly alluded to. The fire dropped and spurted again, and when it rose for the second time the face of Spencer Anstruther was smooth and smiling.