His was a face once seen not easily forgotten, the outlines classic and finely chiselled, the habitual expression thoughtful, preoccupied, the prevalent idea conveyed being tenacious strength.

Quite an unusual person in Middle Street, Kennington.
They passed.
Brett swung the stick carelessly in his left hand, but not so carelessly that on the least sign of a hostile movement he would be unable to dash it viciously at his possible adversary's eyes.
He remembered the advice of an old cavalry officer: "Always give 'em the point between the eyes.

They come head first, and you reach 'em at the earliest moment." Nevertheless, he experienced a quick quiver down his spine when the other man deliberately stopped and looked after him.

He did not turn his head, but he could "feel" that vicious glance travelling over him, could hear the unspoken question: "Now, I wonder who _you_ are, and what you want here ?" He staggered slightly, recovered his balance, and went on.

It was a masterpiece of suggestiveness, not overdone, a mere wink of intoxication, as it were.
It sufficed.