He was a smooth man, with his hair parted in the middle, and his cigarette poised on a tiny gold holder.

He waited a moment, politely cursed the dust, knocked again, threw his slender sword-cane under his arm, and wiped the inside of his hat with his handkerchief.
Madame John held a parley with him at the wicket.

'Tite Poulette was nowhere seen.

He stood at the gate while Madame John went up-stairs.
Kristian Koppig knew him.

He knew him as one knows a snake.