His hair was wild, his eyes bright, burning with fever, A stubble of black beard was over the thin face. Over his cheek-bones was spread a brilliant flush. A man obviously ill, with temperature running high.
One must sympathise with Margaret. She had expected any scene but this. Again fear seized her. What a fool she had been to come! What a fool! This man Masterson was ill; yet she couldn’t feel sorry for him. Those over-bright eyes fixed on hers were so malevolent somehow.
She stammered something. Her mouth was so dry that coherent speech seemed impossible.
Then the man got out of his chair. Dully, she noticed how great was the tax on his strength. He clutched at the mantel for support. Dislodged by his elbow, a bottle crashed down and splintered on the tiles of the hearth. The smell of whisky, which always made her feel sick, combined with apprehension and the heat of the room, to set Margaret’s senses dancing a fantastic reel.
Clutching the mantelpiece, the man attempted a bow. “You must pardon my appearance,” he said, and his voice made the girl shrink back, “but I am—am at your service. Oh, yes, believe me. What can I have the great pleasure of—of doing for you? Eh?”
He started to move towards her, aiding his trembling legs by scrabbling at the wall. Margaret felt a desire to scream; choked the scream back. She tried to burst into speech, to say something, anything, to tell one of her stories that she had been so proud of. She failed utterly.
The man continued his spider-like approach.
“Go back! Go back!” Margaret whispered. She was shaking, shaking all over.
But the man had left the wall, and without its support had fallen to his knees. His head lolling with every movement, he crawled to the over-turned table and searched among the litter of newspaper beside it.
Margaret cast longing eyes at the door. She tried to move, but her legs would not obey her. Fascinated by the horror of the thing, she looked down at the man. Her eye caught heavy headlines on the tumbled papers.