Ezekiel Bogart had removed the skullcap, the green glasses and the huge cravat. In place of a countenance obscured by a grotesque disguise, appeared a noble face, a broad forehead, rendered venerable by masses of snow-white hair. His beard, also white as snow, left bare the outlines of his massive chin and descended upon his breast. And sunken deep beneath his white eyebrows, his large eyes shone with the light of a great intellect, a generous heart. It was indeed a noble head. True, his mouth was large, and the lips severely set, his large nose bent to one side, his cheek-bones high and prominent, but the calm steady light of his eyes, the bold outlines of his forehead,—stamped with thought, with genius,—gave character to his entire face, and made its very deviations from regularity of feature, all the more impressive and commanding.
"It is the Doctor!" cried Ninety-One. "Yer ha'r is white and thar's wrinkles about yer mouth an' eyes, but I know you, Doctor Martin Fulmer."
[CHAPTER II.]
THE SEVEN ARE SUMMONED.
It was, in truth, that singular man, who in the course of our narrative, has appeared as the Judge of the Court of Ten Millions as the "man in the surtout, with manifold capes," as Ezekiel Bogart, the General Agent; and who, at length, appears in his own character,—Dr. Martin Fulmer, the trustee of the Van Huyden estate.
"Be silent, John,"—the Doctor rose and gently waved his hand,—his bent form for a moment became straight and erect,—his attitude was noble and impressive. "The child whom, twenty-one years ago, Gulian Van Huyden intrusted to your care, has, this night,—even as the misfortunes of long years were about to be succeeded by peace, security, the possession of unbounded wealth,—met his death at the instigation of Gulian's brother. Be silent, John, for the shadow of almighty fate is passing over us! It was to be, and it was! Who shall resist the decrees of Providence? Behold! the fabric which I have spent twenty-one years to build, is dust and ruins at my feet!"
There was the dignity of despair in his tone, his look, his every attitude.
He slowly moved toward the door.—"Remain here, John, until morning. I may want the aid of your arm. The worst has fallen upon me," he continued, as though speaking to himself, "and nothing now remains but to fulfill the last conditions of my trust, and—to die."
He left the room, and in the darkness, along corridor, and up stairway, pursued his way slowly to the banquet-room.