Reardon laid down his
book, but kept his pipe in his mouth, and went to the door. A
tall, thin man stood there, with a slouch hat and long grey
overcoat. He shook hands silently, hung his hat in the passage,
and came forward into the study.
His name was Harold Biffen, and, to judge from his appearance, he
did not belong to the race of common mortals. His excessive
meagreness would all but have qualified him to enter an
exhibition in the capacity of living skeleton, and the garments
which hung upon this framework would perhaps have sold for
three-and-sixpence at an old-clothes dealer's. But the man was
superior to these accidents of flesh and raiment. He had a fine
face: large, gentle eyes, nose slightly aquiline, small and
delicate mouth. Thick black hair fell to his coat-collar; he wore
a heavy moustache and a full beard. In his gait there was a
singular dignity; only a man of cultivated mind and graceful
character could move and stand as he did.
His first act on entering the room was to take from his pocket a
pipe, a pouch, a little tobacco-stopper, and a box of matches,
all of which he arranged carefully on a corner of the central
table.
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