Perhaps there was something in my expression that caught
Hobart's attention. He turned about.
"Say, Harry, who is that fellow? I know that face, I'm certain."
"Come to think I have seen him myself. I wonder--"
The young man looked up again. The same weary smile. He nodded.
And again he glanced over my shoulder toward the door. His face
suddenly hardened.
"He knows us at any rate," I ventured.
Now Hobart was sitting with his face toward the entrance. He could
see anyone coming or going. Following the young man's glance he
looked over my shoulder. He suddenly reached over and took me by
the forearm.
"Don't look round," he warned; "take it easy. As I said--on my
honour as a fat man."
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.
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