It was an extremely quiet household, in spite of its grandeur. The Earl was a peculiar individual of misanthropical temperament, who shut himself up in his study, and never mixed with the outer world unless there were some urgent necessity. The death of his wife some fourteen years ago had given him ample excuse for eschewing society; and society, being aware of his crotchety ideas, returned the compliment by leaving him severely alone.
The room to which Montella was eventually conducted was a small turret-chamber approached by a special staircase from the topmost landing. There was no electric light here, and the flickering candle-light cast weird shadows across the stone walls and tessellated floor. As he entered the room two large blackbirds flew towards him, and encircled his head. The footman waved them away; and flapping their wings, they returned to their aviary in the embrasure formed by the window. Then the manservant retired, to leave Montella alone with the Earl.
He was a man just bordering on middle age, but his bald head and stooping figure gave him the appearance of the aged. He was bending over a tank, with the sleeves of his little velvet jacket turned up. His dress-coat had been carelessly slung over the back of a chair. The drip of the water into the tank was the only sound to break the silence. Montella for the moment remained inert.
At last the Earl turned round.
“Oh—ah—Montella,” he said, with his hands still in the water. “Roberts announced you, didn’t he? I was rather—ah—preoccupied. Hope you’ll excuse my shaking hands. Come here and look at—ah—some of my work.”
The young man did as he was told, and advanced towards the tank, which proved to be a toning-bath. Amateur photography was the Earl’s latest hobby, and one which for a while absorbed all his time. The photographs floating in the water were principally views of his country seat, but there were also a few portraits amongst them. One, of a child of about six years of age, his lordship picked up and laid in the palm of his hand.
“There!” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph. “Can you tell me who that is?”
The face in the photograph had moved horribly, and the eyes were doubled. It might have stood for any small boy in the kingdom. Montella hesitated before replying; but at last he received a happy inspiration.
“The King!” he exclaimed. “One can scarcely fail to recognise him. It is the King!”
“It is the King.” Lord Torrens dipped the print lovingly in the water once more. “I photographed him in the grounds of the palace by special permission of his mother—ah—the Queen-Regent. He was a terrible little rascal to take—moved all over the place; but I’ve got a splendid picture of him, don’t you think so? Of course it wants touching up a bit; you can understand that?”