His frankness at once unarmed me and amused me.
“You are quite out of breath;” I remarked.
“Yes,” he said, “I have walked up the seven flights of stairs.”
“What, are not the elevators running?” I asked, worrying about Sandy’s return.
“Oh, yes, but they make me dizzy. I—I—I rarely use them.”
The man’s hesitation shot a fiendish idea into my brain. There are two classes of men who interest me particularly, one type is composed of those who are taciturn about their mysterious selves, and the other kind who conceal mystery under a glib and suave exterior. My visitor being of the latter class, this fiendish intention came into my brain: suppose you dose him with your sangaree until he reveals his mystery, and you can read his naked soul. Besides this, the man had a fascinating face and figure. He was about fifty years of age, his hair streaked with grey, his eyes outwardly plausible but inwardly leering, his mouth told of an exceedingly sensuous nature. His features and his body stood out like a mask, covering an actual self within, totally different from his considerate, gentlemanly exterior. I want to scratch that thin veneer of civilization, and get a look at this urbane creature.
“I fear that you mistook my abruptness for rudeness,” I said, “sit down, won’t you? Rest a few minutes until you recover your breath. I fear you have no conception of how hard stair-climbing is on the heart.”
“I have been used to it for years,” he replied, about to depart, “for eighteen years I climbed the pyramids of Egypt.”