I can't exactly say that his was a face I disliked, but
it was decidedly not one I took to. He had eyes set somewhat close
together, a well trimmed short black beard, and an expression in which I
seemed to read impudence and certainly read suspicion. He stopped at the
sight of me and looked me up and down at least as curiously as I studied
him. Only I trust I conducted my inspection less obviously.
"Mr. Rendall?" I enquired, and though I had come here meaning to confide
in him, I found myself instinctively putting in a touch of accent; not
with a wet brush as I did for the Scollays' benefit, still I threw in a
little, and, as I say, quite without intending it.
Curiously enough I saw his face clear the moment I spoke.
"Oh," said he, with an air of relief, "it's the doctor you're wanting, is
it? Well, he's at home. Come in."
So the laird was a doctor? Of which sort, I wondered; medical,
theological, or what?
"I'm Mr. O'Brien," added my new acquaintance as he opened the front door
for me. "You're quite sure it's not me you're wanting?"
I had noticed more than a trace of accent in his own voice when he spoke,
and there was no doubt now what it was; a very palpable Irish brogue. As
he asked this question he looked at me with a curious mixture of humour
and defiance. It seemed to me that the humour was assumed and the
defiance genuine, but that may have been simply because the man impressed
me unfavourably.
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