Part 7 (2/2)

”It's not a pleasant evening, is it? I think that up at the station you asked me to have a drink with you. Now, perhaps, you'll have one with me?”

As he spoke Mr. Paxton was conscious that the German-American was regarding him, if possible, even more intently than his friend. This was the man to whom he had taken an instinctive dislike. There was about the fellow a suggestion of something animal--of something almost eerie. He did not strike one as being a person with whom it would be wise to quarrel, but rather as an individual who would stick at nothing to gain his ends, and who would be moved by no appeals for either sympathy or mercy.

”Would you mind stepping outside for a moment, Mr. Paxton?”

”Outside? Why?”

Mr. Paxton's air of innocence was admirably feigned. It might be that he was a better actor with a man than with a woman.

”There is something which I rather wish to say to you.”

”To me? What is it?”

”I would rather, if you don't mind, speak to you outside.”

Mr. Paxton turned his back against the bar facing Mr. Lawrence with a smile.

”Aren't we private enough in here? What is it you can have to say to me?”

”You know very well what it is I have to say to you. If you take my advice, you'll come outside.”

Mr. Lawrence still spoke softly, but with a softness which, if one might put it so, had in it the suggestion of a scratch. A gleam came into his eyes which was scarcely a friendly gleam. The smile on Mr.

Paxton's countenance broadened.

”I know! You are mistaken. I do not know. You are the merest acquaintance; I have never exchanged half a dozen words with you. What communication of a private nature you may have to make to me, I have not the faintest notion, but, whatever it is, I would rather you said it here.”

Mr. Paxton's tones were, perhaps purposely, as loud as Mr. Lawrence's were soft. What he said must have been distinctly audible, not only to those who were close to him but also to those who were at a little distance. Especially did the high words seem audible to a shabby-looking fellow who was seated at a little table just in front of them, and wore his hat a good deal over his eyes, but who, in spite of that fact, seemed to keep a very keen eye on Mr. Paxton.

Perceiving that his friend appeared to be slightly nonplussed by Mr.

Paxton's manner, the German-American came a little forward, as if to his a.s.sistance. This was a really curious individual. As has been already mentioned, he was tall and thin, and, in spite of his stoop, his height was accentuated by the fas.h.i.+on of his attire. He wore a long, straight black overcoat, so long that it reached almost to his ankles. It was wide enough to have admitted two of him. He kept it b.u.t.toned high up to his chin. His head was surmounted by a top hat, which could scarcely have been of English manufacture, for not only was it a size or two too large for him, but, relatively, it was almost as long as his overcoat. Thus, since his hat came over his forehead, and his overcoat came up to his chin, not much of his physiognomy was visible, and what was visible was not of a kind to make one long for more. His complexion was of a dirty red. His cheekbones were high, and his cheeks were hollow. They were covered with tiny bristles, which gleamed in the light as he moved his head. His eyes were small, and black, and beady, and he had a trick of opening and shutting them, as if they were constantly being focussed. His nose was long, and thin, and aquiline--that aquiline which suggests a vulture. His voluminous moustache was black; one wondered if it owed that shade to nature.

But, considerable though it was, it altogether failed to conceal his mouth, which, as the Irishman said, ”rolled right round his jaws.”

Indeed, it was of such astonis.h.i.+ng dimensions that the surprise which one felt on first encountering it, caused one, momentarily, to neglect to notice the practically entire absence of a chin.

This pleasing-looking person, coming to Mr. Paxton, raised a long, lean forefinger, capped by what rather resembled a talon than a human fingernail, and crooked it in Mr. Paxton's face. And he said, speaking with that p.r.o.nounced German-American accent--

”Permit me, my dear friend, to ask of Mr. Paxton just one question--just one little question. Mr. Paxton, what was the colour of your Gladstone bag, eh?”

Mr. Paxton felt, as he regarded the speaker, that he was looking at what bore a stronger resemblance to some legendary evil creature than to a being of our common humanity.

”I fail to understand you, sir.”

”And yet my question is a very simple one--a very simple one indeed. I ask you, what was the colour of your Gladstone bag, eh?”

”My Gladstone bag!--which Gladstone bag?”

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