A flash of blind rage came from the depths of John Vaughan's dark eyes at the first sight of him. He moved forward a step and his hand trembled in a desperate instinctive desire to kill. He was a soldier. His enemy was before him advancing. To kill had become a habit. It seemed the one natural thing to do.
He stopped with a shock of surprise as the President turned his haggard eyes in a dazed way and looked about the room.
The light fell full on his face increasing its ghost-like pathetic expression. The story of anxiety and suffering was burnt in letters of fire that left his features a wrinkled mask of grey ashes. The drooping eyelids were swollen, and dark bags hung beneath them. The muscles of his massive jaws were flaccid, the lines about his large expressive mouth terrible in their eloquence. His sombre eyes seemed to gaze on the world with the anguish of millions in their depths.
For a moment John Vaughan was held in a spell by the unexpected apparition.
"You are alone, sir?" the quiet voice slowly asked.
"Yes."
"I had expected Miss Winter——"
"She came with me and was compelled to leave."
"Oh—will you pull up a chair."
The tall form dropped wearily at his desk. His voice had a far-away expression in its tones.