IV. The Story of the Bald-Headed Man

           WefollowedtheIndiandownasordidandcommonpassage,ill-litandworsefurnished,untilhecametoadoorupontheright,whichhethrewopen.Ablazeofyellowlightstreamedoutuponus,andinthecentreoftheglaretherestoodasmallmanwithaveryhighhead,abristleofredhairallroundthefringeofit,andabald,shiningscalpwhichshotoutfromamongitlikeamountain-peakfromfir-trees.Hewrithedhishandstogetherashestood,andhisfeatureswereinaperpetualjerk,nowsmiling,nowscowling,butneverforaninstantinrepose.Naturehadgivenhimapendulouslip,andatoovisiblelineofyellowandirregularteeth,whichhestrovefeeblytoconcealbyconstantlypassinghishandoverthelowerpartofhisface.Inspiteofhisobtrusivebaldness,hegavetheimpressionofyouth.Inpointoffacthehadjustturnedhisthirtiethyear.

           “Yourservant,MissMorstan,”hekeptrepeating,inathin,highvoice.“Yourservant,gentlemen.Praystepintomylittlesanctum.Asmallplace,miss,butfurnishedtomyownliking.AnoasisofartinthehowlingdesertofSouthLondon.”

           Wewereallastonishedbytheappearanceoftheapartmentintowhichheinvitedus.Inthatsorryhouseitlookedasoutofplaceasadiamondofthefirstwaterinasettingofbrass.Therichestandglossiestofcurtainsandtapestriesdrapedthewalls,loopedbackhereandtheretoexposesomerichly-mountedpaintingorOrientalvase.Thecarpetwasofamber-and-black,sosoftandsothickthatthefootsankpleasantlyintoit,asintoabedofmoss.