This new position gave me a better view of his face, but I could not
guess his age. His was one of those old-young faces, deeply lined,
smooth-shaven, the hair clipped short, the flesh ashen-gray, the lips a
mere straight slit, yielding a merciless expression; but the eyes,
surveying me coldly, were the noticeable feature. They looked to be
black, not large, but deep set, and with a most peculiar gleam, almost
that of insanity, in their intense stare. Even as he lounged back amid
the chair cushions I could see that he was tall, and a bit angular, his
hand, holding a cigar, evidencing unusual strength. He must have
stared at me a full minute, much as a jockey would examine a horse,
before he resumed smoking.
"He will do very well, Neale," he decided, with a glance across at the
other. "Possibly a trifle young."
"He has roughed it," returned the other reassuringly, "and that means
more than years."
The first man laughed rather unpleasantly, and emptied his glass.
"So I have discovered. Have a cigar, or a drink, Craig?"
"I will smoke."
He passed me the box, watching me while I lighted the perfecto, Neale
crossing to the divan.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"I thought about that. What part of the country do you hail from?" and
I noticed now a faint Southern accent in the drawl of his voice.
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