In a few minutes Mr. Kippilaw appeared with a puzzled and perplexed expression in his face, as he alternatively looked at his two visitors, and at Shafto's card in his hand.
Mr. Kippilaw was now in his sixtieth year; his long since grizzled hair had now become white, and had shrunk to two patches far apart, one over each ear, and brushed stiffly up. His eyebrows were also white, shaggy, and under them his keen eyes peered sharply through the rims of a gold pince-nez balanced on the bridge of his long aquiline nose.
Shafto felt just then a strange and unpleasant dryness about his tongue and lips.
'Mr. Shafto Melfort?' said Mr. Kippilaw inquiringly, and referring to the card again. 'I was not aware that there was a Mr. Shafto Melfort—any relation of Lord Fettercairn?'
'His grandson,' said Shafto unblushingly.
'This gentleman with the dark eyes?' asked Mr. Kippilaw, turning to the silent Florian.
'No—myself,' said Shafto sharply and firmly.
'You are most unlike the family, who have always been remarkable for regularity of features. Then you are the son—of—of—'
'The late Major Lennard Melfort who died a few weeks ago——'
'Good Heavens, where?'