The cut of his coat, the glossiness of his hat and boots, too, were all strikingly reminiscent of the dead man.
His visitor was becoming nervous under Wrayson's close scrutiny.

His manner betrayed a curious mixture of diffidence and assurance.

He seemed overanxious to create a favourable impression.
"I took the liberty of coming to see you, Mr.Wrayson," he said, twisting his hat round in his hand.

"My name is Barnes, Sydney Barnes.

Morris Barnes was my brother." Wrayson pointed to a chair, into which his visitor subsided with exaggerated expressions of gratitude.