Smoke circled above his head, his eyes upon me as I entered.

With an indolent wave of one hand he seemingly invited me to take a vacant chair to the right, while Neale remained standing near the door.
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.