“It’s bad enough,” said Freyberger, bending over the table and staring at the thing.
“The other part of the reason is the thing itself.”
Freyberger continued gazing without a word.
“You seem in love with it.”
“I am studying it, stripping it of all its accessories. This is the portrait of a human face; it belonged to a person who was in the bedroom of Sir Anthony Gyde just before the death of Leloir; the sight of it killed Leloir, we may presume, from shock.”
“Yes.”
“Well, presumptions are sometimes wrong.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I am studying this face intently; it has all the features of an ordinary human, though very evil, face; in repose one may fancy it repulsive, but not especially alarming, certainly not alarming enough to kill a man from shock.”
“Yes?”