Suddenly the front-door bell rang sharply, and the poor weary maid shuffled down the stairs. She had told him, when he came in that night, that a tall strange-looking gentleman, with his face muffled in a white cravat, had called about nine o’clock and left word that he would come again that evening. He had given his name as “Senhor Diaz,” and Bulwrag, after wondering vainly, concluded that it must be some one connected with the sailor Migwell, whom he had seen in the autumn.
Slow heavy steps approached his door, and the maid was dismissed with some gruff words in a foreign language quite unknown to Donovan. Then the door was opened without a knock, and a big man stood and looked at him.
“Who are you? And what do you mean by coming at this time of night?” Bulwrag spoke in his roughest tone, for the man was shabby and repulsive.
The visitor coolly took a chair, handling it in a peculiar manner, for he seemed to have bags on, instead of gloves. Then he crossed a pair of gigantic legs; and Bulwrag saw that he wore no boots, but loose slops of hide with the hair on, in size and shape much like the nosebag of a horse. His hat was flapped over his ears and forehead, and he spoke not a word, but gazed at Downy with large red eyes, having never a hair of lash or brow to shade them. Bulwrag shuddered, and drew his chair away; he had never been looked at like this, and could not meet it.
“In the name of the Devil—” He could get no further; for the eyes of this monster, and the strange formation under the cloth, where his face should have been, declared that he was laughing.
“You have learned to swear. Valedon—very good”—the voice sounded dead through the mufflings, and the accent was not like an Englishman’s—“chip of the old block. I was famous for that, at your age, young man.”
“What do you know of my age? Who are you? What are you? What brings you here at this time of night? What do you want me to do for you?”
Even Downy Bulwrag was hurried and confused, and lost his resources in the presence of this man; and a fearful idea made his blood run cold.
“Ha, he knows me not. He is not a wise son”—the stranger still kept his red eyes on him—“where is the voice of nature, that I am compelled to introduce myself?”
“Speak out. Do you mean to stop here all night? Don’t cover your face up, like a thief. In the name of God, who are you?”