Then some curtains were drawn aside, and Bob found himself in what might have been a richly appointed room of an old French mansion.
Seated at a desk, covered with documents of all sorts, his face almost hidden from the light, sat a man—alone. He did not look up at Bob's entrance, but went on reading quietly, now and then making a note on the margin of the papers which he was examining.
He was clad in an officer's uniform, but what rank he held, Bob was unable to determine; that he was in high command, there could be no doubt.
Minute after minute passed, and still this lonely figure sat reading and examining.
The silence was intense; they might have been away in the heart of the country, far from the rush and clamour of life. Had not Bob passed through innumerable hordes of men, he would have thought himself in an uninhabited region.
A little clock on a kind of sideboard ticked distinctly, and as minute after minute passed by, the ticking strangely affected his nerves. On his right hand and on his left, men on guard still stood silent, motionless.
Presently the lonely figure at the desk lifted his head and gave Bob a keen, searching glance. In so doing, although the young man was unable to distinguish any particular feature, he caught a glimpse of the face. As far as he could judge, it was grave and deeply lined. He noticed, too, that the hair was grey, while over the temples it was nearly white.
But what impressed him most was the peculiar quality of the eyes—he did not remember ever having seen such eyes before; they were not large, neither was there anything particular in their colour—and yet, they held him like a magnet. Instinctively he knew that here was a master of men.
Those eyes which looked into his—not large, light, steely grey in colour—spoke of domination—of power; they seemed hard and glittering.
A second later he gave a nod to the officers on guard, whereupon they silently backed out of the apartment, leaving Bob alone with the grave, solitary figure at the desk.