HE sat back in his easy chair, pipe in mouth, and newspaper on his knee. The lashing wind and rain outside added to his sense of comfort. He was unassailable, he knew, from all unpleasant elements. A bright wood fire burned on the open hearth. His room was lined with books, for he was a book lover. Everything around him was for use and not for ornament. Some oil portraits hung on the walls, members of the Holt family; but there was no china, no flowers, and no signs of a woman's hand and taste in his room. Thorold Holt was now nearer forty than thirty. He had a lean, sinewy frame, his close-cropped dark head was already streaked with grey, and at times there was a weary look about his grey …
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