He sat down all in a heap. He knew the eyes; he knew the voice. It was
the owner of the dark lantern--the mysterious man in the other house of
that last Saturday night. Pinton felt as if he were about to become ill.
"Lord, but you are a nervous one!" said the other, most reassuringly.
"Sit still and I'll order brandy. It will settle your stomach."
That brought Pinton to his senses at once.
"No, no, I'll be all right in a moment," he said rather huskily. "I
never drink spirits. Thank you, all the same."
"Don't mention it," said the man, and he tossed off his Wuerzburger. Each
man stealthily regarded the other. Pinton saw the stranger of the
lantern and staircase. Close by he was handsome and engaging. His hair
was worn like a violin virtuoso's, and his hands were white, delicate,
and well cared for. He spoke first.
"How did you make out on that job?--I don't fancy there was much in it.
Boarding-houses, you know!"
Pinton, every particle of colour leaving his flabby face, asked:--
"What job?"
The stranger looked at him keenly and went on rather ironically:--
"You are the most nervous duck I ever ran across.
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