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With this in her mind, Cecil stood observant in the background while Sir Dugald gained the deck and greeted his wife. She saw a thin, almost insignificant-looking man, with a skin like parchment, and a small, carefully-trimmed grey moustache. In his dress there was visible a precision so extreme as almost to appear affectation, and his manners were the perfection of elaborate politeness. Sir Dugald Haigh at Baghdad was eminently the right man in the right place. The Indian authorities who appointed him knew that he would never wantonly or ignorantly outrage the prejudices nor shock the susceptibilities of the most jealous and sensitive oriental; but they knew also, and rejoiced in the knowledge, that under the silken glove the iron hand was always ready. Sir Dugald could insist and threaten when it was necessary—nay, he could even bluster, in a dignified and most effective way—and the Pashas and Sheikhs with whom he had to deal knew that, when he had once put his foot down, they might as well try to shake the Great Pyramid as to move him.