the old time-worn, semi-tragic drama, and began his role with a
tireless, utter sincerity that was deadly dangerous if he lost.


II


Perhaps a week after the conversation between St. Clair and
Walcott, Randolph Mason stood in the private waiting-room of the
club with his hands behind his back.

He was a man apparently in the middle forties; tall and reasonably
broad across the shoulders; muscular without being either stout or
lean. His hair was thin and of a brown color, with erratic streaks
of gray. His forehead was broad and high and of a faint reddish
color. His eyes were restless inky black, and not over-large. The
nose was big and muscular and bowed. The eyebrows were black and
heavy, almost bushy. There were heavy furrows, running from the
nose downward and outward to the corners of the mouth. The mouth
was straight and the jaw was heavy, and square.

Looking at the face of Randolph Mason from above, the expression in
repose was crafty and cynical; viewed from below upward, it was
savage and vindictive, almost brutal; while from the front, if
looked squarely in the face, the stranger was fascinated by the
animation of the man and at once concluded that his expression was
fearless and sneering. He was evidently of Southern extraction and
a man of unusual power.

A fire smoldered on the hearth. It was a crisp evening in the