The personage had a big, fat, pink face and a heavily undershot jaw, what whitish beard he wore following his double chin somewhat after the manner displayed in the portraits of Henry the Eighth.  His eyes, very bright under puffed upper lids, were intolerant and insultingly penetrating despite their small size.  Their irritability held a kind of hotness, and yet the personage exuded frost, not of the weather, all about him.  You could not imagine man or angel daring to greet this being genially—­sooner throw a kiss to Mount Pilatus!

“Mr. Brown,” he said, with ponderous hostility, in a bull bass, to the clerk—­the kind of voice which would have made an express train leave the track and go round the other way—­“do you hear me?”

“Oh yes, Judge,” the clerk replied, swiftly, in tones as unlike those which he used for strange transients as a collector’s voice in his ladylove’s ear is unlike that which he propels at delinquents.

“Do you see that snow?” asked the personage, threateningly.

“Yes, Judge.”  Mr. Brown essayed a placating smile.  “Yes, indeed, Judge Pike.”

“Has your employer, the manager of this hotel, seen that snow?” pursued the personage, with a gesture of unspeakable solemn menace.

“Yes, sir.  I think so.  Yes, sir.”

“Do you think he fully understands that I am the proprietor of this building?”

“Certainly, Judge, cer—­”

“You will inform him that I do not intend to be discommoded by his negligence as I pass to my offices.  Tell him from me that unless he keeps the sidewalks in front of this hotel clear of snow I will cancel his lease.  Their present condition is outrageous.  Do you understand me?  Outrageous!  Do you hear?”

“Yes, Judge, I do so,” answered the clerk, hoarse with respect.  “I’ll see to it this minute, Judge Pike.”

“You had better.”  The personage turned himself about and began a grim progress towards the door by which he had entered, his eyes fixing themselves angrily upon the conclave at the windows.

Colonel Flitcroft essayed a smile, a faltering one.

“Fine weather, Judge Pike,” he said, hopefully.

There was no response of any kind; the undershot jaw became more intolerant.  The personage made his opinion of the group disconcertingly plain, and the old boys understood that he knew them for a worthless lot of senile loafers, as great a nuisance in his building as was the snow without; and much too evident was his unspoken threat to see that the manager cleared them out of there before long.

He nodded curtly to the only man of substance among them, Jonas Tabor, and shut the door behind him with majestic insult.  He was Canaan’s millionaire.