ROBERT MOODY¹ was at this time nearly forty years of age. He was a shy, quiet, dark person, with a pale, closely-shaven face, agreeably animated² by large black eyes, set deep in their orbits. His mouth was perhaps his best feature; he had firm, well-shaped lips, which softened³ on rare occasions into a particularly winning smile. The whole look of the man, in spite of his habitual⁴ reserve, declared him to be eminently⁵ trustworthy. His position in Lady Lydiard’s household was in no sense of the menial sort. He acted as her almoner and secretary as well as her steward⁶ — distributed her charities, wrote her letters on business, paid her bills, engaged her servants, stocked her wine-cellar, was authorized⁷ to borrow books from her library, and was served with his meals in his own room. His parentage gave him claims to these special favors; he was by birth entitled to rank as a gentleman. His father had failed at a time of commercial panic as a country banker, had paid a good dividend⁸, and had died in exile abroad a broken-hearted man. Robert had tried to hold his place in the world, but adverse⁹ fortune kept him down. Undeserved disaster followed him from one employment to another, until he abandoned the struggle, bade a last farewell to the pride of other days, and accepted the position considerately and delicately offered to him in Lady Lydiard’s house. He had now no near relations living, and he had never made many friends. In the intervals¹⁰ of occupation he led a lonely life in his little room. It was a matter of secret wonder among the women in the servants’ hall, considering his personal advantages and the opportunities which must surely have been thrown in his way, that he had never

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