The eyes were open--large, liquid eyes, of a peculiarly gentle expression.

I had seen them before, in Radley's Hotel at Southampton, under a gay little Parisian hat.

I was down on my knees in the snow in a moment--all cold with the thought that I had killed a woman.
But Charles Miste was a man--and a dead one at that.

My relief was so great that I could have shouted aloud.

Miste had therefore been within my grasp at Southampton, only eluding me by a clever trick, carried out with consummate art.