A minute later, a servant came and presented Captain Bowood with a card. The latter put on his spectacles, and read what was written on the card aloud: ‘“MR GARWOOD BROOKER, Theatre Royal, Ryde.” Don’t know him. Never heard of the man before,’ said the Captain emphatically. ‘The gentleman is waiting in the library, sir,’ said the servant. ‘Says he wants to see you on very particular business.’ ‘Humph! Too hot for business of any kind. Too many flies about. Must see him though, I suppose.’ The servant retired; and presently the Captain followed him into the house. Mrs Bowood and Lady Dimsdale lingered for a few minutes, and then they too went indoors. As Captain Bowood entered the library, Mr Brooker rose and made him a profound bow. He was a stoutly-built man, between fifty and sixty years of age. He wore shoes; gray trousers, very baggy at the knees; a tightly buttoned frock-coat, with a velvet collar; and an old-fashioned black satin stock, the ends of which hid whatever portion of his linen might otherwise have been exposed to view. A jet black wig covered his head, the long tangled ends of which floated mazily over his velvet collar behind. His closely shaven face was blue-black round the mouth and chin, where the razor had passed over its surface day after day for forty years. The rest of his face looked yellow and wrinkled, the continual use of pigments for stage purposes having long ago spoiled whatever natural freshness it might once have possessed. Mr Brooker had a bold aquiline nose and bushy brows, and at one time had been accounted an eminently handsome man, especially when viewed from before the footlights; but his waist had disappeared years ago, and there was a general air about him of running to seed. When Mr Brooker chose to put on his dignified air, he was very dignified. Finally, it may be said that every one in ‘the profession’ who knew ‘old Brooker,’ liked and esteemed him, and that at least he was a thorough gentleman. Having made his bow, Mr Brooker advanced one foot a little, buried one hand in the breast of his frock-coat, and let the other rest gracefully on his hip. It was one of his favourite stage attitudes. ‘Mr Brooker?’ said Captain Bowood interrogatively, as he came forward with the other’s card in his hand. ‘At your service, Captain Bowood.’ The voice was deep, almost sepulchral in its tones. It was the voice of Hamlet in his gloomier moments. ‘Pray, be seated,’ said the Captain in his offhand way as he took a chair himself. Mr Brooker slowly deposited himself upon another chair. He would have preferred saying what he had to say standing, as giving more scope for graceful and appropriate gestures; but he gave way to circumstances. He cleared his voice, and then he said: ‘I am here, sir, this morning as an ambassador on the part of your nephew, Mr Charles Warden.’ ‘Don’t know any such person,’ replied the Captain shortly. ‘Pardon me—I ought to have said your nephew, Mr Charles Summers.’