I can't tell you what he was really like.

But--he reminded me of someone I never want to think of or suffer myself to think of again if I can help it." "Who ?" said Monck.
His voice was quiet, but it held insistence.

She felt as if his eyes pierced her, compelling her reply.
"A horrible old native--a positive nightmare of a man--whom I shall always regard as in some way the cause of my husband's death." In the pause that followed her words, Monck's hand left hers.

He lay still looking at her, but with that steely intentness that told her nothing.

She could not have said whether he were vitally interested in the matter or not when he spoke again.
"You think that he was murdered then ?" A sharp shudder went through her.