His age might lie anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, his eyes
were straight-looking and clear, his fresh, clean-shaven face was
undeniably handsome, and, whatever his origin, whatever his history,
there was something about him, in look, in speech, in bearing, that
mutely stood sponsor for the thing called "birth."

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Sir Horace, amazed and appalled to find
the reality so widely different from the image he had drawn. "What
monstrous juggle is this? Why, man alive, you're a gentleman! Who are
you? What's driven you to a dog's life like this?"

"A natural bent, perhaps; a supernatural gift, certainly, Sir Horace,"
he made reply. "Look here! Could any man resist the temptation to use it
when he was endowed by Nature with the power to do this?" His features
seemed to writhe and knot and assume in as many moments a dozen
different aspects. "I've had the knack of doing that since the hour I
could breathe. Could any man 'go straight' with a fateful gift like that
if the laws of Nature said that he should not?"

"And do they say that?"

"That's what I want you to tell me--that's why I have requested this
interview. I want you to examine me, Sir Horace, to put me through those
tests you use to determine the state of mind of the mentally fit and
mentally unfit; I want to know if it is my fault that I am what I am,
and if it is myself I have to fight in future, or the devil that lives
within me. I'm tired of wallowing in the mire. A woman's eyes have lit
the way to heaven for me. I want to climb up to her, to win her, to be
worthy of her, and to stand beside her in the light."