At the door he was met by three men--the Rajah,
Stafford, and a new-comer whom he did not recognize and for the moment
scarcely noticed. He had a quick and sympathetic intelligence, which
was trained to read straight through men's eyes into their minds, and
in an instant he had classed and compared, not without a pang of real
if very objective regret, the two familiar faces and their
expressions. Gloom and sunshine jostled each other.
On the one hand, Nehal Singh had never looked better than he did then.
The old film of dreamy contemplation was gone from his eyes, which
flashed with energy and purpose; the face was thinner and in places
lined; the figure, always upright, had become more muscular. From a
merely handsome man he had developed into a striking personality,
released from the bonds of an enforced inactivity and an objectless
destiny. By just so much Stafford had altered for the worse. His
character was too strong and rigid to allow an absolute breakdown. He
still carried himself well; to all intents and purposes, as far as his
duty was concerned, he was as hard-working and conscientious as he had
ever been, but no strength of will had been able to hinder the change
in his face and expression. He looked years older. There was grey
mixed with the dark brown of his hair; the eyes were hollow and
lightless; the cheeks had painfully sunken in. A friend returning
after a two months' absence would have said that he had gone through a
sharp and very dangerous illness; but Marut, who knew that he had not
been ill, wondered exceedingly.
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