"Yess," said the bearded man, staring toward the fire.
Here, as in the sunlight, Orlinov's beard was glistening. It had the ruddy glow of burnished gold. The man's eyes were open, and they caught the sparkle of the fire.
In that face, Cliff detected a new expression — a determined brutality that gave the Russian the appearance of a mocking fiend.
"You would like to see?" questioned Orlinov, staring directly at Tremont.
"I should be interested," returned the lawyer.
"Come," said Orlinov. He turned to Cliff. "You will stay here, Marslandt. I have business — a private business — with Mr. Tremont."
"Yes, sir," rejoined Cliff.
The men crossed the living room, and Cliff seemed indifferent to their departure. He fancied that questioning looks would be directed back toward him, but he paid no attention.
Instead, he stared directly at the fire.
He knew where those men were going. Through the iron door that led to the mystery wing of this house. Cliff Marsland played hunches. He was a man of action. He had gained his craving for excitement on the battlefields of France. He had continued it in the service of The Shadow. Inactivity wearied him. He was most confident when he was in danger.