Sinopsis

DR. ARNOLD EVERSHAM sat at his broad writing-table, his head resting on one long white hand, the other laid upon the open book beneath the table lamp. There was no other light in the room, but the lemon-coloured walls of his study glowed in the reflected rays that were thrown from the white blotting-pad to the ceiling and back again. The room was simply furnished; a deep-blue carpet covered the centre of the parquet floor, and across one wall stretched a dwarf book-case of dark wood; a chintz-covered davenport, a big arm-chair drawn up by the flower-filled fire-place, two other chairs and the writing-table constituted the bulk. A few Medici prints in dark frames hung on the walls—a Corot, a Terbosche, a Van Mere, and da Vinci's Mona Lisa. He looked up as somebody knocked softly on the door, and, so looking, his brows met. He was a particularly good-looking man of fifty-five, slightly grey at the temples. His thin, intellectual face showed none of the tell-tale markings that characterise men of his years, and his grave, deep-set eyes held all the sparkle and fire of youth.