The Missing Angel by Erle Cox — Read

Minutes passed before he moved again. At last he leaned back with a sigh. As he did so, he started erect with an exclamation of astonishment. In the armchair reserved for visitors at the end of the table, sat a stranger. For a moment anger got the better of his surprise. How could Miss Brand have dared to admit him after the order he had given? Never before had she so lapsed from duty. Then anger and surprise gave way to curiosity. Although Tydvil stared in a manner in which he would scarcely have permitted himself in ordinary circumstances, the stranger seemed quite unabashed. He met the questioning stare frankly, with just a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The intruder was apparently tall, and slender without being thin. As he leaned back in his chair, perfectly composed, Tydvil was struck with a sense of latent power and authority in the man, although there was nothing in the pose to suggest it. Tydvil seldom took particular notice of another man's appearance, but the distinction of his visitor's person forced itself to his attention. He might have been anything between thirty and sixty years of age. There was youth in the smooth and nobly formed forehead and in the clear, olive cheeks. There was youth, too, and boundless vitality in the dark, flashing eyes, and in the straight, shapely mouth.