As for Major Griff, he was a tall, dried-up man, like a stick; with a hard, handsome face, iron-grey hair and moustache, and keen eyes, which looked everyone straight in the face. A thorough scamp, it was true, yet with sufficient dexterity to hide his scampishness, and a military cut-and-dried brevity which disarmed suspicion. Some rogues fawn and supplicate to gain their ends, but not so the Major, who habitually grave, plain in his speech, and brusque in his manner, gave everyone the impression of being a blunt, straightforward soldier. He was stopping at a friend's house in the town of Starton, which was a short distance away, and had come over on a friendly visit to Mrs. Veilsturm, who lived mostly alone, as her house was not large enough to enable her to receive company. This did not matter, as she generally dined out every night, but on this special evening, the two had to consult about their plans, so Mrs. Veilsturm had refused an invitation with many thanks, but "you see I have to speak about business connected with my West Indian Estates with my trustee, Major Griff," and the givers of the invitation were quite impressed with an idea of her wealth. The West Indian Estates were a capital bait wherewith to gull people as, being at a distance, no one could deny their existence, and the very mention of them had a golden sound, suggestive of toiling slaves and untold riches. "So you did do what I told you not to, Maraquita?" growled the Major, who called Mrs. Veilsturm by her Christian name when alone. "If you mean in the way of calling upon Lady Errington, yes," she replied indolently, sweeping her sandal-wood fan to and fro and diffusing a subtle eastern perfume through the room. She had a beautiful voice, full, rich and mellow, yet with a certain roughness which grew more pronounced when she became excited. Anyone would have been fascinated by this voluptuous beauty lounging in the chair, while the dreamy fragrance of the sandal-wood seemed to add to her rich, eastern look, but custom had habituated Major Griff to this barbaric loveliness, and he spoke curtly, being annoyed and making no effort to conceal his annoyance. "You were wrong, quite wrong, I tell you," he observed, taking a sip of sherry. "Do you think I'm a fool?" asked Mrs. Veilsturm harshly, with a frown. "I do! What woman isn't--on occasions?" was the polite response. Mrs. Veilsturm laughed in a sneering fashion, in nowise offended, as the private conversations of this precious pair were apt to be rather disagreeable at times, but the Major, always cool and imperturbable, knew better than to provoke the Creole's wrath, which resembled, in its force and terror, the storms of her native land.