“I believe you, my boy!” said the Major tersely. He turned to Claire and added more gently, “Tell us some more about this fellow, Miss Gifford! Describe him! Would you recognise him if you met again?”
“Oh, yes. At once. He is tall and dark, good-looking, I suppose, though I detest his type. Very dark eyes. Large features.”
The Major ruminated, finding apparently no clue in the description.
“Tall. Dark. Large features! I know about a hundred men to whom that description might apply. Could you think of anything more definite?”
Claire ruminated in her turn; recalled the image of Cecil’s lover, and tried to remember the details of his appearance.
“He has very thick hair, and brushes it straight across his forehead. His eyebrows are very short. He has a high colour, quite red cheeks.”
Major Carew made a short, choking sound; lay back in his chair, and stared aghast. This time it was evident that the description awoke a definite remembrance, but he appeared to thrust it from him, to find it difficult to give credence to the idea.
“Impossible!” he murmured to himself. “Impossible! High colour, you say; short eyebrows. When you say ‘short,’ what exactly do you mean?”
“They begin by being very thick, then they stop abruptly. They don’t follow the line of the eye, like most eyebrows. They look—unfinished!”
Major Carew bounced upon his chair.