The shape of his narrow, conical, and somewhat elegantly-placed head, denoted an inclination to fanaticism, which had been skillfully combated by a perfectly skeptical education, so as to turn this stream of character into strange channels.

Hobbyism was his infirmity, perhaps, and he was essentially a man of one idea at a time.  The word “odd” applied to him peculiarly, which is in itself a sort of social ostracism when attached to any one, and raises a barrier at once between a man and his fellow-bipeds that not even superiority could surmount.

He was emphatically a tawny man as to coloring—­hair, skin, and eyes, being all pretty much of the same hue of “the ribbed sea-sands.”  Yet there were vestiges about him of an originally fair complexion.  His wrists and temples were white as those of a woman.  His face was long, lank, and cadaverous; his eyes shone with a clear, amber, and steady light, and had an abstracted expression usually, accompanied with a not unfrequent and most peculiar warp of the pupils.

His hair was singularly shaggy and picturesque in its tawny grayness, and wavy, wiry length.  Above his eyes his heavy brows of the same texture and color seemed to make a pent-house, from which the high, pale brow receded gradually; his profile was aquiline to absolute grotesqueness.  The idea of “Punchinello” presented itself irresistibly at the sight of his parrot-like nose and suddenly-upturned chin.

His gait was as peculiar as his countenance and manner; he glided, in walking, carrying himself erectly, with his arms closely pinioned to his sides.  He was altogether so extraordinary looking that I felt myself staring almost rudely at him on our first interview; yet his dress was in no way remarkable except for an air of old-fashioned and speckless neatness.

Madame La Vigne was a pretty and well-preserved woman, of about thirty-five, a fair brunette, originally, to whom most of her daughters bore a close resemblance.  One alone, the plainest of the band, presenting a resemblance, most unfortunately for her, of “Colonel La Vigne,” as his wife called him, with scrupulous punctilio.

One son, the eldest of their family, they spoke of as the pride of their hearts even on that first interview.  He was in the navy, and, consequently, much from home.  They regretted this for many reasons, they said, and, among others, on my account.  He was so genial, so companionable—­their own dear Walter—­“such a delightful fellow,” as his sister Madge declared exultingly—­the second of this band of sisters—­and, as far as I could observe, on first acquaintance, the brightest.  Marion, the elder, was extremely pretty and gentle; and Bertie, the third, taciturn and unprepossessing, yet evidently sensible.  She it was who alone resembled her father.

* * * * *

Fortunately, for the uninterrupted success of my scheme, Evelyn had one of her sick turns that day, and remained closely shut up in her room.  At one o’clock, I summoned Franklin to my chamber.