Doing so, his eyes met those of the man in the corner. I glanced from one to the other, but my gaze rested longest on the face of the smaller man. So fascinated did he seem to be by the other's stare that his eyes became set and stony. It was just as if he were mesmerised. The man he looked at rose, approached him, sat down at the table and began to arrange the men on the board without a word. Then he looked up again.
"May I have the pleasure of giving you a game?" he asked in excellent English, bowing slightly as he spoke, and moving a pawn with his long white fingers.
The little man found voice enough to murmur an appropriate reply and they began their game, while I turned to my lunch. But in spite of myself I found my eyes continually turning to see what was happening at the other table. And, indeed, it was a curious sight.
The tall man had thrown himself into the business of the game, heart and soul. He half sat, half crouched over the board, reminding me more of a gigantic hawk hovering over a poultry yard than anything else I can liken him to.
His eyes were riveted first on the men before him and then on his opponent—his long fingers twitched and twined over each move, and seemed as if they would never release their hold. Not once did he speak, but his attitude was more expressive than any words.
The effect on the little man, his companion, was overwhelming. He was quite unable to do anything, but sat huddled up in his chair as if terrified by his demoniacal companion. The result even a child might have foreseen. The tall man won, and the little man,
