The Four Faces | Page 5

the light of the big bay window, there could be no mistaking
him. Again I was struck by his remarkable appearance--the determined,

clean-cut features, the straight, short nose, the broad forehead, the
square-shaped chin denoting rigid strength of purpose. Once more I
noticed the cleft in his chin--it was quite deep. His thick hair was dark,
with a slight kink in it behind the ears. But perhaps the strangest, most
arresting thing about Gastrell's face was his eyes--daring eyes of a
bright, light blue, such as one sees in some Canadians, the bold, almost
hard eyes of a man who is accustomed to gazing across far distances of
sunlit snow, who habitually looks up into vast, pale blue skies--one
might have imagined that his eyes had caught their shade. He wore
upon his watch-chain a small gold medallion, a trinket which had
attracted my attention before. It was about the size of a sovereign, and
embossed upon it were several heads of chubby cupids--four sweet
little faces.
At first glance at him a woman might have said mentally, "What nice
eyes!" At the second, she would probably have noticed a strange
thing--the eyes were quite opaque; they seemed to stare rather than look
at you, there was no depth whatever in them. Certainly there was no
guessing at Gastrell's character from his eyes--you could take it or
leave it, as you pleased, for the eyes gave you no help. The glance was
perfectly direct, bright and piercing, but there could be absolutely no
telling if the man when speaking were lying to you or not. The hard,
blue eyes never changed, never deepened, nor was there any emotion in
them.
To sum up, the effect the man's personality produced was that of an
extraordinarily strong character carving its way undaunted through
every obstacle to its purpose; but whether the trend of that character
were likely to lean to the side of truth and goodness, or to that of lying
and villainy, there was no guessing.
All these points I observed again--I say "again," for they had struck me
forcibly the first time I had met him in Geneva--as he stood there facing
me, his gaze riveted on mine. We must have stayed thus staring at each
other for several moments before anybody spoke. Then it was Lord
Easterton who broke the silence.
"Well?" he asked.

I glanced at him quickly, uncertain which of us he had addressed. After
some instants' pause he repeated:
"Well?"
"Are you speaking to me?" I asked quickly.
"Of course," he replied, almost sharply. "You don't seem to know each
other after all."
"Oh, but yes," I exclaimed, and I turned quickly to Gastrell,
instinctively extending my hand to him as I did so. "We met in
Geneva."
He still stood looking at me, motionless. Then gradually an expression,
partly of surprise, partly of amusement, crept into his eyes.
"You mistake me for someone else, I am afraid," he said, and his voice
was the voice of the man I had met in Geneva--that I would have sworn
to in any court of law, "It is rather remarkable," he went on, his eyes
still set on mine, "that Mr. Osborne, to whom Lord Easterton has just
introduced me, also thought he and I had met before."
"But I am certain I did meet you," Osborne exclaimed in a curious tone,
from where he sat. "I am quite positive we were together on board the
Masonic, unless you have a twin brother, and even then--"
He stopped, gazing literally open-mouthed at Hugesson Gastrell, while
I, standing staring at the man, wondered if this were some curious
dream from which I should presently awaken, for there could be no two
questions about it--the man before me was the Gastrell I had met in
Geneva and conversed with on one or two occasions for quite a long
time. Beside, he wore the little medallion of the Four Faces.
Easterton looked ill at ease; so did Osborne; and certainly I felt
considerably perturbed. It was unnatural, uncanny, this resemblance.
And the resemblance as well as the name must, it would seem, be
shared by three men at least. For here was Lord Easterton's friend,

Hugesson Gastrell, whom Easterton had told us he had met frequently
in London during the past month; here was Jack Osborne claiming to
be acquainted with a man named Gastrell, whom he had met on his way
home from Africa, and who, as he put it to us afterwards, was "the dead
facsimile" of Easterton's guest; and here was I with a distinct
recollection of a man called Gastrell who--well, the more I stared at
Easterton's guest the more mystified I felt at this Hugesson Gastrell's
declaring that he was not my Geneva companion; indeed that we had
never