His hair was grey and thin, his looks wild and wandering, and the hectic colouring of his face and narrow chest showed that he was far gone in consumption.

Even as Lucian looked at him he was shaken by a hollow cough, and when he withdrew his handkerchief from his lips the white linen was spotted with blood.
He was in evening dress, and looked eminently refined, although worn and haggard in appearance.

Denzil noted two peculiar marks about him; the first, a serpentine cicatrice extending on the right cheek from lip almost to ear; the second, the loss of the little finger of the left hand, which was cut off at the first joint.

As he examined the man a second and more violent fit of coughing shook him.
"You seem to be very ill," said Lucian, pitying the feebleness of the poor creature.
"Dying of consumption--one lung gone!" gasped Berwin.

"It will soon be over--the sooner the better." "With your health, Mr.Berwin, it is sheer madness to dwell in this rigorous English climate." "No doubt," replied the man, pouring himself out a tumbler of claret, "but I can't leave England--I can't leave this house, even; but on the whole," he added, with a satisfied glance around, "I am not badly lodged." Lucian agreed with this speech.