Phil's face had flushed and paled by turns. He looked at the expert with a shivering fascination: "But there are—there will be—men aboard those ships...." He shuddered and wrenched his gaze away.
Bersonin put out his great hand and laid it on the other's shoulder—its weight seemed to be pressing him down into the chair.
"Well?" he said, in a low intense voice. "What if there are?"
There was a long silence. Then slowly Phil lifted a face as white as paper. A look slinking and devilish lay in it now.
The doctor bent down and began to speak in a low tone. The sound passed around the room, sibilant, like the sound of a bat's wings in the dark.
It was an hour before midnight when Phil opened the gate of the expert's house and passed down the moon-lighted street. He walked stumblingly, cowering at the tree-shadows, peering nervously over his shoulder like one who feels the presence of a ghastly familiar.
In the great room he had left, Bersonin stood by the fireplace. The nervous strain and exaltation were still on him. He poured out a glass of the liqueur which he had not yet tasted and drank it off. The hot pungent mint sent a glow along his nerves. Behind him Ishida was methodically removing the dinner service. The doctor crossed the room and stood before the bamboo cage. He drew back the spring-door and whistling, held out his finger.
"Here, Dick!" he called. "Here, boy!"
There was no response.