David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Wood turned to look at him. His nose was large but also fine and angular, tapering to a point at the end like a nobleman’s.
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