"Why," she said in wonder--"thank you. I shall be glad--"

She checked in astonishment: a man was approaching from the general
direction of the door by which they had entered.

The effect was uncanny, as if the figure had materialized before her very
eyes, out of clear air, as if one of those many shadows had taken on shape
and substance while she looked.

The man himself was nothing unusual in general aspect, of no remarkable
stature, neither tall nor small, neither robust nor slender. His evening
clothes were without fault, but as much might be said of ten thousand men
who might be seen any night in the public rendezvous of leisured London.
His carriage had special distinction only in that he moved with a sort of
feline grace. Still, something elusive made him unlike any other man Sofia
had ever met, something arresting and not altogether prepossessing.

As he drew nearer and his features became more clearly defined by the
light, she was sensible of gazing into a face of unique cast. Of an odd
grayish pallor accentuated by hair so black that it might have been painted
on his skull with india-ink, the skin seemed to be as soft and smooth as a
child's, beardless and wholly without lustre. The mouth was sensuous yet
firm, with hard, full lips. Leaden pouches hung beneath heavy-lidded eyes
set at a noticeable angle. The eyes themselves were as black as night and
as lightless; the rays of the lamp struck no gleam from them; in spite of
this they were compelling, masterful, and disconcerting.

Karslake at once fell back, with a bow so low it was little less than an
obeisance.