He saw the top of a man's head. He had a dim recognition of feet sprawling from under the chair. On either arm of the chair rested a man's hand. There was something he knew about those hands; the prominent knuckles; the long, well made fingers. The heavy, silver signet ring on the smallest finger of the left hand was a ring he had often seen.
He crossed the room.
"Otto—!"
Standing there in front of Kurz, he wondered at the change in him. He looked so much older. There was no trace left of the boyishness which he had always associated with Otto Kurz. There were gray streaks in Kurz's heavy hair; gray at the temples of the wide forehead; gray behind the ears. The mustache and beard were threaded with grayed hairs.
He was astonished to find Otto Kurz in his room.
"Otto—! I had no idea that you would be here—!"
He could not understand the rigid attitude of the man's great body; the set mobility of the man's large hewn features.
He moved a bit so as to stand directly in the line of those fixed staring eyes. He wanted to interrupt the wooden expression of those eyes.
"Otto—It was good of you to come."
Kurz's eyes raised themselves to meet his eyes. He quivered at the look in Kurz's eyes.