And the face was dismal and dull. No expression enlivened it. No thought seemed to abide under that ivory forehead; and the eye-lids, entirely devoid of lashes, never flickered, which gave the eyes the fixed look of the eyes in a statue.
Lupin beckoned to one of the waiters:
"Who is that gentleman?"
"The one eating his lunch over there?"
"Yes."
"He is a customer. He comes here two or three times a week."
"Can you tell me his name?"
"Why, yes . . . Leon Massier."
"Oh!" blurted Lupin, very excitedly. "L. M. . . . the same two letters . . . could it be Louis de Malreich?"
He watched him eagerly. Indeed, the man's appearance agreed with Lupin's conjectures, with what he knew of him and of his hideous mode of existence. But what puzzled him was that look of death about him: where he anticipated life and fire, where he would have expected to find the torment, the disorder, the violent facial distortion of the great accursed, he beheld sheer impassiveness.