He spoke in under-tones, laying great stress upon particular words that were evidently favourites with him—­such as, “indeed.”  Not only his eyes, but his whole face, seemed to be nervously blinking and winking all the time he was addressing me, In the embarrassment and anxiety which I then felt, this peculiarity fidgetted and bewildered me more than I can describe.  I would have given the world to have had his back turned, before I spoke to him again.

“I am delighted to hear that my family and my name are not unknown to you, Mr. Sherwin,” I resumed.  “Under those circumstances, I shall feel less hesitation and difficulty in making you acquainted with the object of my visit.”

“Just so.  May I offer you anything?—­a glass of sherry, a—­”

“Nothing, thank you.  In the first place, Mr. Sherwin, I have reasons for wishing that this interview, whatever results it may lead to, may be considered strictly confidential.  I am sure I can depend on your favouring me thus far?”

“Certainly—­most certainly—­the strictest secrecy of course—­pray go on.”

He drew his chair a little nearer to me.  Through all his blinking and winking, I could see a latent expression of cunning and curiosity in his eyes.  My card was in his hand:  he was nervously rolling and unrolling it, without a moment’s cessation, in his anxiety to hear what I had to say.

“I must also beg you to suspend your judgment until you have heard me to the end.  You may be disposed to view—­to view, I say, unfavourably at first—­in short, Mr. Sherwin, without further preface, the object of my visit is connected with your daughter, with Miss Margaret Sherwin—­”

“My daughter!  Bless my soul—­God bless my soul, I really can’t imagine—­”

He stopped, half-breathless, bending forward towards me, and crumpling my card between his fingers into the smallest possible dimensions.

“Rather more than a week ago,” I continued, “I accidentally met Miss Sherwin in an omnibus, accompanied by a lady older than herself—­”

“My wife; Mrs. Sherwin,” he said, impatiently motioning with his hand, as if “Mrs. Sherwin” were some insignificant obstacle to the conversation, which he wished to clear out of the way as fast as possible.

“You will not probably be surprised to hear that I was struck by Miss Sherwin’s extreme beauty.  The impression she made on me was something more, however, than a mere momentary feeling of admiration.  To speak candidly, I felt—­ You have heard of such a thing as love at first sight, Mr. Sherwin?”

“In books, Sir.”  He tapped one of the morocco-bound volumes on the table, and smiled—­a curious smile, partly deferential and partly sarcastic.

“You would be inclined to laugh, I dare say, if I asked you to believe that there is such a thing as love at first sight, out of books.  But, without dwelling further on that, it is my duty to confess to you, in all candour and honesty, that the impression Miss Sherwin produced on me was such as to make me desire the privilege of becoming acquainted with her.  In plain words, I discovered her place of residence by following her to this house.”