"Yes?" queried Dick.
"I found that the bottom was knocked out of all these so-called discoveries by the first touch of serious investigation and criticism. Nothing stood searching tests. Everything shrivelled at the first touch of the fire."
"This talk about angels, about a hereafter, is so much empty wind," went on the Count. "There is no hereafter. When we die there is a great black blank. That's all."
"Then life is a mockery."
"Is it? It all depends how you look at it. Personally I find it all right."
Dick Faversham looked at his companion's face intently. Yes, it was a handsome face—strong, determined, forceful. But it was not pleasant. Every movement of his features suggested mockery, cynicism, cruelty. And yet it was fascinating. Count Romanoff was not a man who could be passed by without a thought. There was a tremendous individuality behind his deep-set, dark eyes—a personality of great force suggested by the masterful, mobile features.
"You have nerves this morning, Faversham," went on the Count. "Something more than ordinary has happened to you."
"How do you know?"
"I feel it. I see it. No, I am not asking you to make a confidant of me. But you want a friend."
"Yes," cried Dick, speaking on impulse; "I do."