The owner of the eyes in one hand held a lighted bedroom lamp.
In his other hand he held a flat, short-barreled pocket revolver, of burnished gun-metal, and she could see the lamplight glimmer along its side as it menaced her.
She did not gasp--nor did she shrink away, for with her the situation was not so novel as her antagonist might have imagined.

Indeed, as she gazed back at him, motionless, she saw the look of increasing wonder which crept, almost involuntarily, over his white, lean, Slavic-looking face.
Frances Durkin knew it was Pobloff.

He was tall, exceptionally tall, and she noticed that he carried off his faultlessness of attire with that stiff but tranquil _hauteur_ which seems to come only with a military training.

The forehead was high and white and prominent, with oddly marked depressions, now thrown into shadow by the lamp light, above and behind the highly-arched eyebrows, on each extremity of the frontal bone.

The nose was long and narrow-bridged, and the face itself was unusually long and narrow, and now quite colorless.