A bay window, over which the blinds had not been lowered, commanded London.
There were four men smoking about the dinner-table.

Harry Feversham was unchanged, except for a fair moustache, which contrasted with his dark hair, and the natural consequences of growth.

He was now a man of middle height, long-limbed, and well-knit like an athlete, but his features had not altered since that night when they had been so closely scrutinised by Lieutenant Sutch.

Of his companions two were brother-officers on leave in England, like himself, whom he had that afternoon picked up at his club,--Captain Trench, a small man, growing bald, with a small, sharp, resourceful face and black eyes of a remarkable activity, and Lieutenant Willoughby, an officer of quite a different stamp.

A round forehead, a thick snub nose, and a pair of vacant and protruding eyes gave to him an aspect of invincible stupidity.