His hair, discoloured and silky, curled slightly
over his ears. His cheeks were hairless and round, and apparently soft.
He held himself very upright, walked with small steps and spoke gently in
an inward voice. Perhaps from contrast with the magnificent polish of
the room and the neatness of its owner, he struck me as dingy, indigent,
and, if not exactly humble, then much subdued by evil fortune.
I wondered greatly at my fat little financier's civility to that dubious
personage when he asked me, as we resumed our respective seats, whether I
knew who it was that had just gone out. On my shaking my head negatively
he smiled queerly, said "De Barral," and enjoyed my surprise. Then
becoming grave: "That's a deep fellow, if you like. We all know where he
started from and where he got to; but nobody knows what he means to do."
He became thoughtful for a moment and added as if speaking to himself, "I
wonder what his game is."
And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort, or shape or kind.
It came out plainly at the trial. As I've told you before, he was a
clerk in a bank, like thousands of others.
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