"I drove both out to Kis-Imre," Number Ten replied deliberately. "The best way to let people there know what had happened. The general agreed to it."
"Was that your brilliant idea?"
"Mine!" Number Ten replied curtly.
And suddenly through the paint and the grime a look of almost inhuman cruelty distorted his face: the thin lips drew back tight above the red gums, and the sharp teeth gleamed white like those of a wolf. It was the recollection of a note which Naniescu had scribbled at his dictation, and which he, Number Ten, had thrust into the hand of the dead chauffeur for the perusal of an obstinate woman, that brought that wolf-like look into his face. His eyes almost disappeared beneath the strand of false eyebrows and the thick layers of paint upon the lids, and his hands opened out and were clutched again like the talons of a bird of prey.
For the space of a second or two Number Ten looked hideous. De Kervoisin, who was watching him, was conscious of an uncomfortable shudder: Naniescu fortunately was looking another way, and the whole episode was over in a moment; the next, Number Ten was once more leaning back in his chair, looking weary, grimy and ill-tempered, but there was nothing supernatural about him, except perhaps his amazing change from one personality to another.
"How did you get back here?" Kervoisin asked after a moment's pause.
"I have a car which our friend, the general, has placed at my disposal, with a soldier-driver. I ordered him to follow me to within half a kilomètre of Kis-Imre."
"No one stopped you?"
"No one."
"I suppose you got to Kis-Imre before anyone was astir?"