"Zanti!... Stephen!... Oh! how splendid! How perfectly, perfectly
splendid!"
Mr. Zanti's enormous body was enclosed in a suit of bright blue, his broad
nose stood out like a bridge, his wide mouth gaped. He wore white spats,
three massive rings of twisted gold and in his blue tie a glittering
emerald. He was a magnificent, a costly figure and in nothing was the
geniality of his nature more plainly seen than in his obvious readiness
to abandon, at any moment, these splendid riches for the sake of a valued
attachment. "I love wearing these things," you might hear him say, "but
I love still better to do anything in the world that I can for you, my
friend."
Stephen presented a more moderate appearance, but he was brown with health
and shining with strength. He was like the old Stephen of years and years
ago, so different from the--man who had shared with Peter that room in
Bucket Lane.
He carried himself with that air of strong, cautious reserve that
Cornishmen have when they are in some other country than their own; his
eyes, mild, gentle, but on the alert, ready at an instant to be hostile.
Then, when Peter came in, the reserve instantly fled. They had, all three
of them, perhaps, expected embarrassment, but at that cry of Peter's they
were suddenly together, Mr. Zanti, waving his hands, almost shouting,
Stephen, his eyes resting with delight on Peter, Peter himself another
creature from the man who had pursued Mortimer Stant in the room upstairs,
half an hour before.
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