Fifty, he looked ten years younger. A short, uncombed thatch of coarse brown hair showed no streak of grey; nor did a closely clipped moustache of a lighter shade. His broad forehead was singularly serene, save for an accusing deep vertical line between the brows. And a faint criss-cross network, too, appeared beneath the strong grey eyes when they were dimmed by relaxation of effort, but vanished almost magically when they were illuminated by thought. A grey sweater, somewhat tightly fitting, revealed a powerful frame. Knicker-bockers and woollen stockings and heavy shoes completed his attire. His hands, glazed and coarsened, at first sight betrayed the labourer rather than the scholar. But the fingers were sensitively long, and the deep filbert nails showed signs of personal fastidiousness, as did his closely shaven cheek. A wiry-coated Airedale came to him and sought his notice. He turned and caressed the dog’s rough head. “Well, old son, finished the day’s work? You’re a rotten old fraud, you know, pretending to be bossing around, and never doing a hand’s turn for anybody.” The dog, as though to justify his existence, barked, darted a yard away, ran up, barked again and once more started. “Dinner time already?” The sound of the word signified to the dog the achievement of his mission. He barked and leaped joyously as his master slowly strolled towards the house. On the threshold appeared a young Chinaman, of smiling but dignified demeanour, wearing Chinese dress. “Dinner is served, sir,” he said, making way respectfully for Baltazar to pass. “So Brutus has just informed me, Quong Ho.” “I sent him to tell you, sir. He is possessed of almost human understanding.” “It is always good,” said Baltazar, “to associate with intelligent beings.”