He had made a shrewd guess at the owner of the black motor, and he examined him with undisguised curiosity. In spite of his corpulence the man moved with well-trained ease and self-possession; his face was ruddy, and he was bald with the exception of a little gray fringe at the back of his head. His features were full and coarse—a face like that of Nero up-to-date, made in America.
Wallion was not disappointed, he had pictured Elaine's employer something like this.
Dixon slowly took off his driving gloves and let his eyes, which were entirely devoid of expression, rest on the "Problem-Solver."
"Well, Mr. Wallion," he said, "you seem to be in rather a fix just now. Pray, are you always so imprudent?"
"Of course, life would be so monotonous otherwise."
Dixon showed no sign of having heard this remark. He took the roll out of Ferail's hand and stuffed it into one of his inner pockets.
"I am going to look after this," he observed in a business-like voice. "We are in a hurry, the road is clear and I've got the two dolls in the car. What are you going to do with him, Doctor?" he asked, with a movement of his hand in the direction of Wallion.
"Allow me to make a proposal," said Ferail, taking a step forward. His peculiar short breathing made every one look at him.
"Well, what is it?" asked Dixon abruptly.
Ferail's face twitched, he looked like one possessed, his right hand wandered to his waistcoat and he drew forth a long, straight, thin knife.... "This is what I wished to propose," he said.