Hugh shivered as he shook the large hairy hand of Doctor Bergius. How he hated this man. Those deep set eyes were profound with cruelty; that dense blue-black beard concealed a face that might be that of a fiend incarnate; his large fleshy lips of a bright unnatural red, set in that black beard, gave a singularly repulsive impression. When he smiled it was with a grin, callous, relentless, orientally cruel.
He smiled now, and Hugh was glad of his yellow goggles. They concealed the fact that his eyes were black instead of blue. He was glad, too, of the drawn heavy curtain. It seemed to him that even with all his precautions Doctor Bergius was regarding him with a curious fixity.
“Ah, young man,” he said in his metallic voice, “you have kept us waiting. There is so much to be done and we have so little time. Castelli, close that door.”
Hugh nodded sullenly. He dared not trust himself to speak. Once again Doctor Bergius regarded him curiously. He did not seem satisfied. He went up to Hugh and stared at him very hard. Hugh’s heart began to thump.
“I am discovered,” he thought, and his hand went to his pistol.
But the Doctor turned away with an expression of contempt. “Pah!” he said. “You’ve been drinking again. I hope you’re not off on one of your bouts.”
Hugh shook his head. He affected a certain surly stupidity. “No, no, doctor,” he said thickly, “only a touch of brandy. Got sore throat. Caught a chill on the golf course. Felt shaky. Took it to steady me, clear my head.”
“Well, it must be the last until to-morrow evening. After that you can go to the devil your own way. Promise me that now,—the last.”
Hugh nodded sulkily.
“That is understood. Your part in the programme is a small one, but important. You must have all your wits about you. If you fail you may throw out the whole plan.”