The visitor, cigarette in mouth and hands in pockets, sauntered into the room and took it from her. He was young, English, immaculately dressed, except for a rather baggy Burberry, worn loosely over his tweed suit, and he carried a pair of very smart motoring gloves, which he cast upon the table. His manner was at once hard and immature, languid and curiously restless. A second glance assured Esther that her first suspicion was correct. Undoubtedly he was the young man she had seen on several occasions, notably with the Frenchwoman at the Restaurant des Ambassadeurs.
Puffing contemplatively, he let his eyes roam about the room.
"Doctor still out?" he inquired in a vacant tone.
"Yes, but he'll probably be home in a few minutes. It's nearly lunch-time."
She was going to ask if she could do anything for him, but she decided the question was superfluous. He had the air of a friend, not a patient, of an intimate dropping in for an informal call. It came to her that she must amend her opinion that Dr. Sartorius was quite without social ties. She was about to return to her work when the young man's roving eyes reached her in their tour and rested upon her face for several seconds, their vacant gaze giving way to speculative attention.
"You have a familiar look, you know," he remarked. "I seem to recall seeing you somewhere. Where was it?"
Esther met his scrutiny for a moment, then slowly shook her head.
"Odd. You've not been here before, have you? With Sartorius, I mean?"
"No, never."
He carefully flicked an ash upon the rug, then looked at her again.