The person nearest to Florence was a small dark man with beady eyes. Farther away, with his back to the door, was a powerfully built, swarthy man whose broad neck was covered with bristles.
More interesting than these, and at once more terrifying, was a second small man. He was working at a narrow bench. He wore dark goggles. In his hand he held a sort of torch. The light from this torch, when he switched it on, was blinding. With it he appeared to be engaged in joining certain bits of metal. There was, however, on his face a look altogether terrifying.
“I am trapped!” the girl thought to herself. “Ten stories up. And it is night. Why did I come?”
“You wished to see Professor Alcapar?” a voice asked. It was the little dark man who stood before her.
“Yes. I—” the words stuck in her throat. “They have locked the door!” she was thinking a trifle wildly.
“I am Professor Alcapar,” said the little man in a perfectly professional tone. “Perhaps these good people will excuse me. What can I do for you?”
“Why, I—” again the girl’s voice failed her.
Truly angry at herself, she was ready to stamp the floor, when the smooth voice of Madame Zaran said, “Won’t you have a chair? You must have time to compose yourself. The Professor, I am sure, can quiet your mind. He is conscious of God. He makes others conscious of divine power.” The words were spoken in an even tone. For all this, there was in them a suggestion of malice that sent a cold shiver coursing up the girl’s spine.
“You have been kind enough to visit our other place of—of business,” Madame Zaran went on when Florence was seated. “You see us here in a more intimate circle. This is our—you might say, our retreat.”
“Retreat. Ah, yes, very well said, our retreat,” the Professor echoed.