Charliewood stopped at a small and expensive-looking hairdresser's and perfumer's, passed through its revolving glass doors and bowed to a stately young lady with wonderfully-arranged coils of shining hair, who sat behind a little glass counter covered with cut-glass bottles of scent and ivory manicure sets. When he was nearly at the mouth of New Bond Street, Mr. Charliewood down as four and forty, in status a man accustomed to move in good society, though probably more frequently the society of the club than that of the drawing-room. The nose was aquiline, the mouth clean cut and rather full. His eyes were light blue in colour, not very direct in expression, and were beginning to be surrounded by the fine wrinkles that middle age and a life of pleasure imprint. He was a tall, well-built man, with light close-cropped hair and a large intelligent face. But his manner in reply was rather languid, and his clean-shaven cheeks lacked the colour that the eager air had given to most of the pedestrians. Eustace Charliewood was greeted several times by various friends as he walked slowly up the street. It was, in short, a typical winter's morning in Bond Street when everything seemed gay, sumptuous and debonair. The great shops of one of the richest thoroughfares in the world were brilliant with luxuries, the tall commissionaires who stood by the heavy glass doors were continually opening them for the entrance of fashionable women. The sun was shining brightly, and there was a keen, invigorating snap in the air which sent the well-dressed people who were beginning to throng the pavements, walking briskly and cheerily. Eustace Charliewood walked slowly up Bond Street. Upon a brilliant morning in the height of the winter, Mr.

Skin stealer the backrooms