on the man. I tell you I can see absolutely nothing but his great,
yellow, wicked face, and for the background the romantic spot where we
last met."

It was Gurdon's turn now to listen. He leant forward in his chair, his
whole attention concentrated upon the figure of the stranger, huddled up
in the armchair at the little table opposite. He touched Venner on the
arm, and indicated the figure of the man who had suffered so cruelly in
some form or other.

"The plot thickens," Venner murmured. "Upon my word, he seems to know
this Mark Fenwick as well as I do."

The maimed crippled figure in the armchair had dragged himself almost to
his feet, with his powerful, muscular arm propping him against the table.
His unusually handsome face was all broken and twisted up with an
expression of malignant fury. He stood there for a moment or two like a
statue of uncontrollable passion, rigid, fixed, and motionless, save for
the twitching of his face. Then, gradually he dropped back into his chair
again, a broken and huddled heap, quivering from head to foot with the
pain caused by his recent exertion. A moment later he took from his
breast pocket a silk shade, which he proceeded to tie over his eyes, as
if the light hurt him. Watching his every movement with intense
eagerness, the two friends saw that he had also taken from his pocket a
small silver case, about the same size as an ordinary box of safety
matches. Indeed, the case looked not unlike the silver coverings for wood
matches, which are generally to be seen in well-appointed households.
Then, as if nothing interested him further, he leaned back in his chair,
and appeared to give himself over entirely to his enjoyment of the
orchestra. In all probability no diner there besides Venner and Gurdon