Old Ugly-Face by Talbot Mundy

The light had changed; the sun had moved across the gap in the cavern wall. They faced one another in a sort of mystic twilight, in which the rough walls were almost invisible. The easiest face to see was St. Malo's because he faced the light. It was a fascinating face--decadent, willful, incorruptible by any moral considerations. To that extent it had integrity. He hadn't shaved for a long time but his beard was as sparse as a Tibetan's. He had high cheekbones, a dark skin and refined-looking rather Mongoloid features. Now that the opium had begun to work on him even his vicious mouth recovered a kind of charm. His gesture, as if picking up a hand of cards and holding them to his breast, looked natural, unconsidered; but it aroused Andrew's interest; he suspected a weapon; his muscles tightened a bit; he was ready.

St. Malo opened, and drew one card--from underneath him. He had been sitting on it. He flourished a sheet of rather crumpled paper that he had taken from Andrew's briefcase, crunched it up and tossed it into Andrew's lap.