The jocose Jobson then bowed himself out, chaffed the servant in the hall who assisted him on with his overcoat, lit a segar, offered one to the impatient colonel (who was figuratively shaking the dust from his shoes on the stoop), and then hooking his arm in that of the disgusted warrior, walked along with him, chatting with a familiar confidence that rather surprised his companion. Mark examined this new-found friend with some curiosity. Jobson was a tall, spare man, with a good-natured sharp face, keen eyes, a predatory nose, and wispy whiskers. Beneath his drab surtout he wore a brown velvet coat and waistcoat, and his slender legs were encased in cords. A coral splinter-bar pin ornamented his blue bird's-eye scarf, and his watch-chain was composed of miniature snaffle-bits ending in a horse-shoe locket. Altogether he looked the amateur turfman to perfection. "Deuced fine girl, Miss Heath, ain't she?" he began; "Got the stamps, too--richest heiress in the market. Old man took his death through immoderate use of cold water--fell in the drink over in Jersey, where he owned a whole town; and to think now that this sallow-faced bandit seems to have the inside track. It's a burning shame, I say, that such a smoky-head lazzaroni should be tolerated, when good-looking chaps like you and I, colonel, are around and unprovided for, ain't it?" The stockbroker's flippant way of treating a subject so near to the colonel's heart grated harshly on his feelings, but curiosity overcame his repugnance, and he inquired, "Who is this Italian--this Count?"