Dr. Strong set his chin in one thin, cupped hand and gazed consideringly upon the profferer of this strange suggestion. He saw a strong-built, clear-skinned man, whose physical aspect did not suggest the forty-five years to which he had owned. Mr. Clyde recommended himself at first sight by a smooth-voiced ease of manner, and that unostentatious but careful fitness of apparel which is, despite wise apothegms to the contrary, so often an index of character. Under the easy charm of address, there was unobtrusively evident a quick intelligence, a stalwart self-respect, and a powerful will. Yet, the doctor noted, this man had been both ready and fair in yielding his judgment, under the suggestion of a new point of view. Evidently he could take orders as well as give them. “Well,” said Mr. Clyde, “have you appraised me?” The weary eyes of the other twinkled a little. “Physically you disclose some matters plainly enough, if one wishes to show off in the Sherlock Holmes manner. For instance, you’ve recently been in the tropics; your eyesight is better than your hearing, you drink lightly if at all, and don’t use tobacco in any form; you’ve taken up athletics—handball principally—in recent years, as the result of a bad scare you got from a threatened paralytic attack; and your only serious illness since then has been typhoid fever.” Mr. Clyde laughed outright. “If you had started our acquaintance that way,” he said, “I’d have thought you a fortune-teller. Part of it I can follow. You noticed that I kept my left ear turned, of course; and the fact that my nose shows no eyeglass marks would vouch for my eyesight. Did you judge me a non-smoker because I forgot to offer you a cigar—which deficiency I’ll gladly make up now, if it isn’t too late.” “Partly that—no, thank you. I’m not allowed to smoke—but principally because I noticed you disliked the odor of my hot milk. It is offensive, but so faint that no man without a very keen sense of smell would perceive it across a table; no tobacco-user preserves his sense of smell to any such degree of delicacy. As for the drink, I judged that from your eyes and general fitness.” “And the handball, of course, from my ‘cushioned’ palms.” “Obviously. A man at the heart of a great business doesn’t take up violent indoor exercise without some special reason. Such a reason I saw on the middle finger of your left hand.” Holding up the telltale member, Mr. Clyde disclosed a small dark area at the side of the first joint. “Leaky fountain-pen,” he remarked. “As you are right-handed naturally, but write with your left hand, it’s clear that you’ve had an attack of writer’s paralysis—” “Five years ago,” put in Mr. Clyde. “And that your doctor made good use of the salutary scare it gave you, to get you to take up regular exercise.” “And, incidentally, to cut out my moderate, occasional cocktail. Now, as to the tropics and the typhoid?”