It was a very long face, which would have been weak about the mouth had not many years of posing to many clients, most of them wealthy, given it a sort of lugubrious restraint. The eyes were fatigued, the scanty hair was gray, and when the voice spoke it was sepulchral.
“Mr. ...?” began the voice, and then checked itself, remembering the special conditions of that consultation. The face smiled inwardly and strangely at the recollection thereof. The hand attached to its owner’s arm scratched down headings on the corner of the foolscap with a rasping pen.
“I must ask you,” continued the Master of Hidden Things, “a few questions, if you please.” Mr. Petre bowed his head. “In the first place....”
“The reason I have come,” interrupted the Unknown nervously....
The Great Specialist put up a dried, open hand, like a policeman stopping traffic, and said, rather more loudly than before:
“I must beg you, my dear sir! I must beg you! Pray, leave yourself in my hands. I must ask you these preliminary questions before we go any further.” The hand dropped, and the voice continued: “Your father’s age, or age at death?” The pen was prepared to scratch, and the tired eyes looked inquisitively upwards into Mr. Petre’s face.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Mr. Petre, with more boldness than he thought himself possessed of.
“Did you—do you—not know your father?” asked the more startled voice.
“Not from Adam,” said Mr. Petre composedly.
So nearly as such beings can express surprise the Great Specialist expressed surprise in a sudden movement of the brows. His pen was scratching. It scratched “Special circumstances affecting case. Bastardy.” Its driver then superfluously inquired: