The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten o'clock.
The three faces seemed to change before my eyes and reveal their
secrets. The young one was the murderer. Now I saw cruelty and
ruthlessness, where before I had only seen good-humour. His knife,
I made certain, had skewered Scudder to the floor. His kind had
put the bullet in Karolides.
The plump man's features seemed to dislimn, and form again, as
I looked at them. He hadn't a face, only a hundred masks that he
could assume when he pleased. That chap must have been a superb
actor. Perhaps he had been Lord Alloa of the night before; perhaps
not; it didn't matter. I wondered if he was the fellow who had first
tracked Scudder, and left his card on him. Scudder had said he
lisped, and I could imagine how the adoption of a lisp might add terror.
But the old man was the pick of the lot. He was sheer brain, icy,
cool, calculating, as ruthless as a steam hammer. Now that my eyes
were opened I wondered where I had seen the benevolence. His
jaw was like chilled steel, and his eyes had the inhuman luminosity
of a bird's. I went on playing, and every second a greater hate
welled up in my heart. It almost choked me, and I couldn't answer
when my partner spoke. Only a little longer could I endure
their company.
'Whew! Bob! Look at the time,' said the old man. 'You'd better
think about catching your train.
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