Avoiding his glance, Llwellyn rose and went out into the passage. The latch of the door clicked, there was a murmur of voices, and Llwellyn returned, following a third person.
Schuabe gave a scarcely perceptible shudder as this man entered.
The man was a thick-set person of medium height, clean shaven. He was dressed in a frock-coat and carried a silk hat, neither new nor smart, yet not seedy nor showing any evidences of poverty. The man's face was one to inspire a sensitive or alert person with a sudden disgust and terror for which a name can hardly be found. It was an utterly abominable and black soul that looked out of the still rather bilious eyes.
The eyes were much older than the rest of the face. They were full of a cold and deliberate cruelty and, worse even than this, such a hideous knowledge of unmentionable crime was there! The lips made one thin, wicked curve which hardly varied in direction, for this man could not smile.
He belonged to a certain horrible gang who infest the West End of London, bringing terror and ruin to all they meet. These people haunt the bars and music halls of the "pleasure" part of London.
It were better for a man that he had never been born—a thousand times better—than that he should go among these men. Black shame and horrors worse than death they bring with both hands to the bitter fools who lightly meet them unknowing what they are.
Constantine Schuabe, in the moment when he saw this man—knowing well who and what he was—knew the bitterest moment of his life.
Vast criminal that he was himself, mighty in his evil brain, ... he was pure; certain infamies were not his.... He spat into his handkerchief with an awful physical disgust.
"This is my friend, Nunc Wallace," said Llwellyn, pale and trembling.
The man looked keenly at his two hosts. Then he sat down in a chair.