And here, inside the railing, a desk,
or, rather, a great, flat, deal table, spread with a red, ink-stained
cloth, was littered with books and papers; while behind the table,
again, stood a huge, old-fashioned safe, its door swung wide open, its
erstwhile contents scattered in disorder about the floor.
Jimmie Dale's eyes swept the interior of the room with a single, quick,
comprehensive glance--and then, narrowed, travelled from one to another
of the faces of the four men who were gathered around the table. He knew
them all. The stocky, grizzle-haired man in the centre was a
plain-clothes man from headquarters, named Barlow; at the lower end of
the table Reddy Curley and Haines, his partner, faced each other, Curley
drumming indifferently with his fingers on the table-top, Haines
scowling and chewing his lower lip, a certain coarse brutality in both
their faces that was neither pleasant nor inviting; but it was the
white-haired old man, bent of form, standing at the head of the table,
upon whom Jimmie Dale's eyes lingered. Old Grenville! The man's hand, as
he raised it to pass it across his eyes, was shaking palpably; his face,
kindly still in spite of its worn and haggard expression, was pale with
anxiety and strain.
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