One would have supposed that Burke, through keen imagination, found an outlet for his natural desire of action by visualizing the events that he read as he clipped newspapers.
Even now, it was evident that he was putting together the items of the Wilkinson murder; that his keen mind was formulating firm opinions. In fact, he was so engrossed with thought that he did not see the door of the office open.
He started suddenly as he realized that another man was in the room. When he recognized his visitor, he scrambled to his feet with an exclamation of surprise.
“Mr. Clarendon!”
The man whom Burke addressed stood silent and smiling. Yet his smile was as strange as his appearance.
He was tall and wiry, with slightly stooped shoulders. His white hands had long, slender fingers, with pointed nails. His face was pale, and almost masklike.
It was the solemnity of the face that made the smile so peculiar; for like the other features, the smile seemed part of a chiseled countenance.
The man bore an expression that would have resembled death, but for the remarkable light that shone in his deep, piercing eyes. They were like living coals.
He glanced at the piles of clippings, and his eyes seemed to flash approval. Burke grinned.
“They’re all yours, Mr. Clarendon,” he said. “I was just waiting for word from you. All ready to send.”