When he did, the harshness of his voice and his cruel eyes betrayed the gloomy hatred in which he held him.

At meals he ate at one end of the table: we four at the other, as three of us had done on that first evening in Paris.
And sometimes the covert looks, the grim sneer he shot at his rival--his prisoner--made me shiver even in the sunshine.

Sometimes, on the other hand, when I took him unawares, I found an expression on his face I could not read.
I told Croisette, but warily, my suspicions of his purpose.

He heard me, less astounded to all appearance than I had expected.

Presently I learned the reason.