He was lying on the sofa; he had taken off his coat, and his arms were clasped under his head; he was smoking a long cigar.

To find him idle was unusual.

His was not a contemplative nature; a trade journal or a detective novel were the customary solace of odd moments like this.
He did not move as she entered, but he turned his eyes slowly and seriously upon her.

His eyes were black.

He was a very dark man, with a smooth, brown skin and thick, fine hair, which clung closely to his broad, rather massive head.