The elderly rector was seated in a rustic chair, and his benignant countenance evinced considerable perturbation and distress.
Moses Flood, however, was standing beside a small wooden table near-by, and as the story progresses he is to figure so strongly and strangely that he deserves a careful description.
He was about forty-five, tall and well built, inclining somewhat to stoutness. His wavy hair was tinged with gray, his head finely poised, and his smoothly shaven face strikingly strong and attractive. His features were clean cut and pale, his brow broad, his nose straight, and his lips noticeably thin and firm. His eyes were gray, as sharp and cold as steel, yet capable of remarkable expression. Obviously, it was the face of a man of superhuman will, and one rather inclined to quiet reserve and studious habits.
He was scrupulously dressed. His black Prince Albert fitted like a glove and came nearly to the knees of his pearl-gray trousers. His shoes were small and carefully polished, and his silk hat, on the table beside him, was of the latest style. His only jewelry was a small, piercingly brilliant solitaire in his black satin tie. From head to foot he was without a sign of dust or blemish.
This was the man whom Nick Carter had declared to be a rascal in only one way, and Nick fully appreciated that gaming was not confined to cards alone, and for many of his estimable qualities Nick rather admired Moses Flood.
The drift of the interview between the two men almost immediately gave Nick Carter his cue.
“You must hear me patiently,” Doctor Royal was tremulously saying. “I do not forget the past few months, Mr. Flood. I recall with profound feeling your many personal attentions to me, your liberality for charity, your almost princely generosity for the poor of my parish, and it is painful to me beyond expression when I realize how terribly I have been deceived.”
Flood stood as motionless as a man of marble, and nearly as pale; yet his grave, strong face never once changed in a way to betray his secret feelings.
“You feel, then, that you have been deceived?” said he inquiringly, with a peculiarly deep yet penetrating voice, then imbued with kindliness.
“Dreadfully deceived,” replied the rector sadly. “Of my daughter, and the love for her you have just expressed, I cannot now speak.”