By the table, with one hand pressed hardly against it, stood a middle-aged man, with a pale, careworn face; his hair was flecked with grey; his thin lips drawn and drooping at the corners, as if their possessor was heavily burdened by the cares of the world.

That he was agitated was obvious; for the lids flickered over his almost colourless eyes, and the hand he held against his side was clenched tightly.
At sight of the old man he uttered a cry, the kind of cry with which one might greet a ghost.
"Wilfred! You! You! Alive! I--we--thought you were dead." "I am sorry," said Mr.Clendon.

"Yes; I knew that you thought me dead.
It was just as well; I wished you to do so.

Don't be alarmed; there is nothing to be alarmed at.

Permit me to sit down; I have walked some distance." The Marquess of Sutcombe, with an air of desperation, motioned to a chair, and fell to pacing up and down the room.