The only color that showed amidst this mass of black was a splotch of red, where the lining of the cloak was folded back. The crimson hue of the lining rivaled the blood that covered the desk where Tim Waldron’s body lay.
CLIFF MARSLAND made no move. He did not even attempt to reach for the gun that lay on the desk. He studied the man in black with a steady glance.
For a few moments neither moved. Then Marsland calmly slipped his hand into his left coat pocket. He drew forth a cigarette, and lighted it.
A low, chuckling laugh came from the man in the corner. For the first time, Marsland was startled. The match dropped from his fingers.
He suddenly regained his composure and stepped upon the lighted match.
The man in black stepped from the corner. He extended an arm and waved a black-gloved hand in the direction of a chair. Marsland sat down. He still puffed his cigarette, but a puzzled expression had appeared upon his face.
The puzzlement was mingled with awe. He began to feel uneasy. He could see no face beneath that broad-brimmed hat — only the glint of two eyes that seemed to fathom everything.
“You are Cliff Marsland,” spoke a whispered voice.
Marsland nodded.
“Why did you come here?” asked the man in black.