He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. “Be so good as to stand away from that door at once, sir,” Brendon ordered. Luckily, they were not easily discomposed. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered.
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