elaborate excuse to account for my "delay," when the man seated with his
back to me suddenly rose, and, turning abruptly, faced me.

I recognized him at once. It was Gastrell, whom I had met at the Hotel
Metropol in Geneva. As he stood there before me, with his back half
turned to the light of the big bay window, there could be no mistaking
him. Again I was struck by his remarkable appearance--the determined,
clean-cut features, the straight, short nose, the broad forehead, the
square-shaped chin denoting rigid strength of purpose. Once more I
noticed the cleft in his chin--it was quite deep. His thick hair was
dark, with a slight kink in it behind the ears. But perhaps the
strangest, most arresting thing about Gastrell's face was his
eyes--daring eyes of a bright, light blue, such as one sees in some
Canadians, the bold, almost hard eyes of a man who is accustomed to
gazing across far distances of sunlit snow, who habitually looks up into
vast, pale blue skies--one might have imagined that his eyes had caught
their shade. He wore upon his watch-chain a small gold medallion, a
trinket which had attracted my attention before. It was about the size
of a sovereign, and embossed upon it were several heads of chubby
cupids--four sweet little faces.

At first glance at him a woman might have said mentally, "What nice
eyes!" At the second, she would probably have noticed a strange
thing--the eyes were quite opaque; they seemed to stare rather than look
at you, there was no depth whatever in them. Certainly there was no
guessing at Gastrell's character from his eyes--you could take it or
leave it, as you pleased, for the eyes gave you no help. The glance was
perfectly direct, bright and piercing, but there could be absolutely no
telling if the man when speaking were lying to you or not. The hard,
blue eyes never changed, never deepened, nor was there any emotion