He drew his whole body back, bowed for all the world like
any shop-walker letting out a customer, even thrust out a hand, as by
remembered instinct and as if to pull open an imaginary swing-door
for a departing customer of rank. In short, for a moment the man
reverted to his past--to Farrell of the Tottenham Court Road. . . .
Nor was this all. As she went by him he slewed about to follow her
with his eyes, kicking aside the dog that hampered him, crouching
against his legs: and still his gaze followed her, to the outer door.
Not until she had closed the outer door behind her did he face about
on the room again; and still it was as if all the wind had been
shaken, of a sudden, out of his sails. His next words, moreover--
strange as they were--would have stablished his identity with Farrell
even had any doubt lingered in us.
"Funny thing," said he, addressing us vaguely, "how like blood tells,
even down to a look in the eyes. I was husband to a woman once,
thousands of miles from here and foreign of race: but she came of
kings, though far away back, and Miss Denistoun, Sir Roderick, she
reminded me, just then--"
"Look here, Mr.
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