"Don't kid yourself," Hayes replied. "They're as nervous as cats."
"Come in, gentlemen," Dobbs called amiably from the rear of the spacious bedroom. There was an unobtrusive man in a dark suit with him, but he left immediately.
Now that he was face to face with the enigmatic Mr. Dobbs, Flinn felt a momentary sense of disappointment.
Malcolm Dobbs sat in a straight-backed chair beside the large bed. Next to him was a table laden with empty breakfast dishes. Dobbs was dressed in an ordinary bathrobe. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and had a full head of dark hair, slightly gray at the temples. His mild, undistinguished face was only slightly less tanned than Wilmer's, and he was of average size and weight. His dark eyes were the only things that belied the man's composed exterior; they were intelligent, interested, and intently watchful. A tiny smile lingered upon Dobbs' lips, as if he were sharing only with himself some form of immensely funny but eminently private joke.
Flinn's total impression of the man was that he was not the sort one would look at twice in a crowded room—under different circumstances.
"Another delegation?" Dobbs asked. "Hello, Jack, Hayes."