The Man Who Was Nobody by Edgar Wallace

He had come. Marjorie had not expected that he would so soon after his disgraceful exhibition of the previous night. But apparently he had no shame. She had watched her mother go out of the room and had settled to write a letter of thanks t0 Lord Wadham, when there came a tap on the door and a maid, a little agitated as though she knew some of the precious secrets of the house--as probably she did--came in.

"Mr Pretoria Smith," she said breathlessly. Then the man came in, and Marjorie rose to meet him. They stood facing one another for the space of two seconds. He saw a girl of delicate beauty and the sight of her took his breath away. It is true that he had not seen her on the previous night, and had only glimpsed her in the morning, guessing who she was. But now the revelation of her exquisite sweetness came like a blow to him. She, for her part, saw a tall man, not so broad of shoulder as she had imagined he was. His face was tanned brown by the African sun, his eyes were a deep blue (and bloodshot, she noticed, and guessed the cause). It was a mask--like face, designed to hide whatever passions he felt, and in repose was just a little forbidding. He was still dressed in the shabby suit he had worn on the previous night. It hung loosely on him, as though it had been made for a larger and shorter man. It was a terribly awkward moment for both of them.