And the claret, like the general’s other wines, was very good, and Dangerfield said a stern word or two in its praise, and guessed its vintage, to his host’s great elation, who, with Lord Castlemallard, began to think Dangerfield a very wonderful man.

Dr. Sturk alone sipped his claret silently; looking thoughtfully a good deal at Dangerfield over the way, and when spoken to, seemed to waken up, but dropped out of the conversation again; though this was odd, for he had intended giving Dangerfield a bit of his mind as to what might be made of the Castlemallard estates, and by implication letting in some light upon Nutter’s mismanagement.

When Dr. Sturk had come into the drawing-room before dinner, Dangerfield was turning over a portfolio in the shade beyond the window, and the evening sun was shining strongly in his own face; so that during the ceremony of introduction he had seen next to nothing of him, and then sauntered away to the bow window at the other end, where the ladies were assembled, to make his obeisance.

But at the dinner-table, he was placed directly opposite, with the advantage of a very distinct view; and the face, relieved against the dark stamped leather hangings on the wall, stood out like a sharply-painted portrait, and produced an odd and unpleasant effect upon Sturk, who could not help puzzling himself then, and for a long time after, with unavailing speculations about him.

The grim white man opposite did not appear to trouble his head about Sturk.  He eat his dinner energetically, chatted laconically, but rather pleasantly.  Sturk thought he might be eight-and-forty, or perhaps six or seven-and-fifty—­it was a face without a date.  He went over all his points, insignificant features, high forehead, stern countenance, abruptly silent, abruptly speaking, spectacles, harsh voice, harsher laugh, something sinister perhaps, and used for the most part when the joking or the story had a flavour of the sarcastic and the devilish.  The image, as a whole, seemed to Sturk to fill in the outlines of a recollection, which yet was not a recollection.  He could not seize it; it was a decidedly unpleasant impression of having seen him before, but where he could not bring to mind.  ’He got me into some confounded trouble some time or other,’ thought Sturk, in his uneasy dream; ’the sight of him is like a thump in my stomach.  Was he the sheriff’s deputy at Chester, when that rascally Jew-tailor followed me?  Dangerfield—­Dangerfield—­Dangerfield—­no; or could it be that row at Taunton? or the custom-house officer—­let me see—­1751; no, he was a taller man—­yes, I remember him; it is not he.  Or was he at Dick Luscome’s duel?’ and he lay awake half the night thinking of him; for he was not only a puzzle, but there was a sort of suspicion of danger and he knew not what, throbbing in his soul whenever his reverie conjured up that impenetrable, white scoffing face.

CHAPTER XIX.