He wore a redundance of jewelry, in the shape of a couple of yards of watch-chain, a huge seal ring on each little finger, and a flaring diamond breastpin of doubtful quality.
His clothes were light, his hair was light, his eyes were light. He was utterly devoid of hirsute appendages, and withal he was tolerably good-looking and unmistakably wide awake.
He threw away his cigar as he reached the house, and astonished the understrapper who admitted him by presenting his card with a flourishing bow.
"Jest give that to the boss, my man," said this personage, coolly. "I understand you allow strangers to explore this old castle of your'n, and I've come quite a piece for that express purpose."
The footman gazed at him, then at the card, and then sought out Miss
Silver.
"Blessed if it isn't that 'Merican that's stopping at the Vine, and that asked so many questions about Sir Everard and my lady, of Dawson, last night," he said.
Sybilla took the card curiously. It was a bonâ-fide piece of pasteboard, printed all over in little, stumpy capitals:
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARMALEE,
PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST,
No. 1060 BROADWAY,
UPSTAIRS.
Miss Silver laughed.
"The gentleman wants to see the house, does he? Of course he must see it, then, Higgins. And he was asking questions of Dawson last night at the inn?"