The light from the dinner-
table candlesticks was not very good, and to cover my confusion I
got up, walked to the door and switched on the electric light. The
sudden glare made them blink, and I stood scanning the three faces.
Well, I made nothing of it. One was old and bald, one was stout,
one was dark and thin. There was nothing in their appearance to
prevent them being the three who had hunted me in Scotland, but
there was nothing to identify them. I simply can't explain why I
who, as a roadman, had looked into two pairs of eyes, and as Ned
Ainslie into another pair, why I, who have a good memory and
reasonable powers of observation, could find no satisfaction. They
seemed exactly what they professed to be, and I could not have
sworn to one of them.
There in that pleasant dining-room, with etchings on the walls,
and a picture of an old lady in a bib above the mantelpiece, I could
see nothing to connect them with the moorland desperadoes. There
was a silver cigarette-box beside me, and I saw that it had been won
by Percival Appleton, Esq., of the St Bede's Club, in a golf tournament.
I had to keep a firm hold of Peter Pienaar to prevent myself
bolting out of that house.
'Well,' said the old man politely, 'are you reassured by your
scrutiny, Sir?'
I couldn't find a word.
'I hope you'll find it consistent with your duty to drop this
ridiculous business.
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