This unnecessary politeness was a further revelation of Mr. Monk's character. Under the mask of courtesy, he secured his selfish ends, and imposed upon everyone by a heartless good breeding, which passed for amiability. I judged that in looks and manner and dress and inclinations he resembled Harold Skimpole, Esquire, and was quite as homeward-bound as that gentleman. I could have kicked myself for accepting a cigarette from a man of so mean a nature. But then he was Gertrude's father, after all, and it was necessary to secure his good will if I desired to marry her. She seemed to be fond of him, and treated him with playful love. Filial affections evidently warped her judgment, a state of things of which I am sure Mr. Monk took every advantage. While Gertrude ran for the coffee, he lighted my cigarette--which he had just handed me--insisted that I should be seated, and then took possession of the best chair, which he selected with unerring judgment. "I was not aware that my daughter knew you, Mr. Vance," he said, gracefully examining his manicured nails. "Have we acquaintances in common?" "Miss Destiny," I rejoined, laconically. "My sister-in-law. Strange, since she is quite a home-bird--so attached to her modest little nest. Where did you meet her may I ask?" "At Mootley, when Anne Caldershaw was murdered." The cigarette fell from Mr. Monk's white fingers, and he shuddered. "Oh pray don't speak of that horrid thing," he cried, holding up a protesting hand, "it as cost me many sleepless nights. So old and valued a servant, as Anne was. I shall never get over it: never. I was in London and when I read the news in the papers, I nearly fainted, really I did, I assure you." "Don't speak of it, papa, if it annoys you," said Gertrude, coming behind his chair to kiss the top of his head. "No, my dear, I won't." He picked up the cigarette and waved his hand. "I banish the disagreeable vision. To a man of refinement, these crimes suggest painful thoughts, such as make one grow old. It is my aim in life, Mr. Vance," he added, turning to me, "to avoid the unpleasant. Beauty is my desire--beauty and peace. I cannot bear the poor and the sordid: I shrink from the great unwashed. Very estimable people, no doubt, but," he shuddered in his mincing way, "let them keep out of my sight." "You are not a philanthropist, Mr. Monk?" "Certainly not. Why should I trouble about the poor. They are quite happy in their own disagreeable way, and to meddle with them only makes them discontented. Yes, Mr. Vance"--he stopped suddenly and again applied the reflective forefinger. "Ah, yes, I remember now. I saw your name as one of the witnesses at the absurd inquest. That was why it sounded familiar." "Why do you call the inquest absurd, papa?" asked Gertrude, handing him a cup of coffee, for while he was speaking it had been brought into the room.