It was then that Molly recognized him. On that very day but one, a year ago, had she not seen Judith Blount stand under a wintry sky and defy heaven in the same rebellious way?
Judith’s father had come back from South America and was hiding in the Professor’s room at Wellington! And how like they were, the father and daughter; the same black eyes, too close together; the same handsome aquiline noses, and the same self-pitying, brooding natures.
Evidently, Mr. Blount had suffered deeply. Molly thought he must be very poor. Looking at him closely, she noticed the shabby gentility of his appearance; the shiny seams of his Spanish cape which had been torn and patched in many places; his old thin shoes, split across the toes, and his worn, travel-stained hat.
She wondered if he had any money. She suspected that he was very hungry and her soul was moved with pity for the poor, broken old man who had once been worth millions.
“Mr. Blount,” she began.
“How did you know my name?” he cried, shivering all over like a whipped dog. “I didn’t mention it, did I? I haven’t told any one, have I? I came down here in disguise.” He laughed feebly. “Disguised as a broken old man. I went to Edwin’s rooms,” he wandered on, forgetting that he had asked Molly a question. “You know where they are?”
Molly nodded her head. She knew quite well that the Professor lodged in one of the former college houses built on the old campus, used long ago before the Quadrangle had been built flanking the new campus.
“The housekeeper recognized me as a relation and I waited in his room some hours,” went on the old man in a trembling voice.
“And where did you spend the night?”
“In the cloister study. I found the key on his desk. It was marked ‘cloister study.’”