Sinopsis

HENRY ST. JOHN CARRUTHERS was something of an enigma. Where he lived I have no idea, except that it was somewhere north of Oxford Street. But we were both of the Junior Strand, which, as all the world knows, is not a club frequented largely by the clergy or the more respectable lights of the legal profession. It is a pot-house frank and unashamed, but withal a thoroughly amusing one. It is not a large club, and the general atmosphere in the smoking-room is one of conviviality. Honesty compels me to it that the majority of the would not find favour in the eyes of a confirmed temperance fanatic, but since the reverse is even truer the point is not of great interest. Anyway, it was there that I first met Henry St. John Carruthers. He was, I should imagine, about thirty-six years of age—neither good- looking nor ugly. Not that a man's looks matter, but I mention it en ant. He was sitting next to me after lunch, and we drifted into conversation about something or other. I didn't even know his name. I have entirely forgotten what we talked about. But what I do , as having impressed me during our talk, is his eyes. Not their size or colour, but their ...