The very words foretold. I could not but risk a glance. Across the
room a man was coming down the aisle--a tall man, dark, and of a
very decided manner. I had read his description many times; I had
seen his likeness drawn by certain sketch artists of the city.
They did not do him justice. He had a wonderful way and presence--
you might say, magnetism. I noticed the furtive wondering glances
that were cast, especially by the women. He was a handsome man
beyond denying, about the handsomest I had ever seen. The same
elusiveness.

At first I would have sworn him to be near sixty; the next minute
I was just as certain of his youth. There was something about him
that could not be put to paper, be it strength, force or vitality;
he was subtle. His step was prim and distinctive, light as shadow,
in one hand he carried the red case that was so often mentioned. I
breathed an exclamation.

Hobart nodded.

"Am I a fat man? The famous Rhamda! What say! Ah, ha! He has
business with our wan friend yonder. See!"

And it was so. He took a chair opposite the wan one. The young man
straightened. His face was even more familiar, but I could not
place him. His lips were set; in their grim line--determination;
whatever his exhaustion there was still a will. Somehow one had a
respect for this weak one; he was not a mere weakling. Yet I was
not so sure that he was not afraid of the Rhamda. He spoke to the
waiter. The Rhamda began talking. I noted the poise in his manner;
it was not evil, rather was it calm--and calculating. He made an