gray eyes upon the face of the man before him. “I understood my daughter to say”…
Max waved his hands, deprecatingly.
“It is in the first place to apologize,” he explained, “that I am here. I was presented to your daughter in the name of Gaston—which is at least part of my own name—and because other interests were involved I found myself in the painful position of being presented to you under the same false colors”…
“Oh, dear, dear!” began Cumberly. “But—”
“Ah! I protest, it is true,” continued Max with an inimitable movement of the shoulder; “and I regret it; but in my profession”…
“Which you adorn, monsieur,” injected Cumberly.
“Many thanks—but in my profession these little annoyances sometimes occur. At the earliest suitable occasion, I shall reveal myself to Miss Cumberly and Miss Ryland, but at present,”—he spread his palms eloquently, and raised his eyebrows—“morbleu! it is impossible.”
“Certainly; I quite understand that. Your visit to London is a professional one? I am more than delighted to have met you, M. Max; your work on criminal anthroposcopy has an honored place on my shelves.”
Again M. Max delivered himself of the deprecatory wave.
“You cover me with confusion,” he protested;
