Everything about him, from the top of his head to the bottom of his laced boots, shouted profession, even in the Arctic snow.

He might have gone farther and guessed that he was a physician--a surgeon, perhaps--from his hands, and from the supple manner in which he twisted his long white fingers about one another over the stove.

He was a man of about forty, with a thin sensitive face, strong rather than handsome, and remarkable eyes.

They were not large, nor far apart, but were like twin dynamos, reflecting the life of the man within.

They were the sort of eyes which Philip had always associated with great mental power.
The doctor had now finished rubbing his hands, and, unbuttoning his under coat, he drew a small silver cigarette case from his waistcoat pocket.
"They're not poison," he smiled, opening it and offering the cigarettes to Philip.