Only Pierre made no move, yet he felt as he had when the black mass of the landslide loomed above him.
What he saw in the door was a man of medium size and almost slender build.

In spite of the patch of gray hair at either temple he was only somewhere between twenty-five and thirty.

But to see him was to forget all details except the strangest face which Pierre had ever seen or would ever look upon in all his career.
It was pale, with a pallor strange to the ranges; even the lips seemed bloodless, and they curved with a suggestion of a smile that was a nervous habit rather than any sign of mirth.

The nerves of the left eye were also affected, and the lid dropped and fluttered almost shut, so that he had to carry his head far back in order to see plainly.
There was such pride and scorn in the man that his name came up to the lips of Pierre: "McGurk." A surprisingly gentle voice said: "Jim, I'm sorry to drop in on you this way, but I've had some unpleasant news." His words dispelled part of the charm.

The hands of big Boone lowered; the others assumed more natural positions, but each, it seemed to Pierre, took particular and almost ostentatious care that their right hands should be always far from the holsters of their guns.
The stranger went on: "Martin Ryder is finished, as I suppose you know.