Graff had swung around in his chair and was pointing to the lifeless black form in the corner.
Dorson gazed at him, at his extended hand and quivering fingers, at his drawn, bearded face, indescribably malevolent, and with that terrible abnormal gleam and glitter in his frowning eyes, and Dorson felt, with blood chilled and flesh gone cold and clammy, that he was gazing at a madman or a devil incarnate.
“Yes, yes, I have seen enough, Graff, more than enough,” he said hoarsely, lips twitching. “What more need be said?”
“Nothing more.” Professor Graff turned coldly calm again. “You have my instructions. I know you will obey them. We must not meet again until after the trick has been turned, and then only secretly.”
“That suits me. Let’s be moving.”
“How did you come out here?”
“In a trolley car.”
“You may return part way with me. I’ll drop you before entering town. Resume your disguise, then see whether the hall and veranda are deserted.”
Dorson arose and hastened to obey. He returned in a few seconds, saying quietly:
“Come on. There’s no one around.”